Julie & Julia & Juliet & Lassiter
by Lawson227
Summary: In pursuit of a new hobby, Juliet learns more about not only herself, but her partner as well. Set during the current season, so references made to potential spoilers. Shules exists, but given how the show writers are playing it, there's room to play.
1. Chapter 1: SOUPS

Nope, still don't own **psych**. As usual, no infringement intended.

In pursuit of a new hobby, Juliet learns more about not only herself, but her partner as well. Set during the current season, so references may be made to potential spoilers. As such, Shules exists, but I'm taking my cues from how the show writers are playing it, which leaves plenty of room to play.

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><p><strong><span>Soups<span>**

"Lassie! Hey, Lassie! Dude, you have to check this out—Gus is convinced he found the Virgin Mary burned into his grilled cheese and I said we needed to find you for verification."

Carlton was going to be sorry he even engaged Spencer, he knew that. But sometimes, engaging was the only way to get the idiot to shut up. "Why?" he growled as menacingly as possible, knowing it wouldn't do a damn bit of good. And people said _he_ was oblivious to social cues and nuances.

"Because we're operating on the theory of like recognizing like and since Gus actually got some last week, we figured you were the closest candidate around here to a—"

Carlton stopped, closed his eyes, and took the deep breaths that his doctor had recommended after his last physical. His blood pressure numbers had been through the roof in such a spectacular way, the doctor had considering referring him to a specialist. Carlton had been forced to explain this was only because Spencer had somehow found out he was scheduled for the mandatory exam and had followed him to the damned office, badgering him in the waiting room with an endless barrage of statistics regarding the various ailments befalling men of a "certain age," most of which Carlton was convinced Spencer had made up or at the very least, butchered from information gleaned via Guster's real job. It was when Spencer got to the part about the dangers of erections lasting for more than four hours that Carlton had drawn his weapon, right there in the waiting room, only holstering it after Nurse Ratched emerged from behind the glass, four feet, eleven inches of righteous fury in blue scrubs and wielding a baseball bat.

Clearly, she'd dealt with Spencer before.

The only reason he wasn't on medication and an enforced leave was because he'd convinced the doctor to allow him to return the next day, early in the morning—far earlier than Spencer liked being up, which Carlton well knew after more than five years of observing the moron. That it had disrupted the doctor's weekly round of golf didn't matter worth a damn to Carlton. Last thing he wanted was an enforced leave of absence during which Spencer would no doubt wreak unimaginable havoc on his department.

Despite an obvious annoyance at missing his golf game, the doctor had nevertheless been astounded at the sheer magnitude of the difference in Carlton's numbers. After receiving advice on the deep breathing as well as a scrip for something "soothing" to be used in cases of extreme duress, Carlton had left, with the doctor muttering something about medical marvel and journal articles.

The filled bottle still sat in his medicine cabinet, untouched, but the deep breathing—_that_ had gotten a regular workout.

"Spencer?"

"Yeah, Lassie?"

Carlton stared down at the younger man's hand on his shoulder. "Take your hand off me before I shoot it off." Deep breathing could only do so much, after all.

"Okay, okay, chill—admittedly, it's just a grilled cheese sandwich." But he removed his hand, although not without a patented Shawn smirk.

"_Was_ a grilled cheese sandwich." Guster appeared, fastidiously wiping at the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin.

Shawn's smirk dissolved into an expression of betrayal. "You ate it?"

"It was getting cold and there's nothing nastier than cold grilled cheese sandwich."

"You could have eaten the other one!"

"Not after you licked it to make sure I wouldn't!"

"Gus, Gus, Gus… you make it sound so dirty."

"It _is_ dirty. Or at the very least, Shawn, unhygienic."

"I'd eat a sandwich if you licked it first."

"You ate a sandwich you fished from the compost bin at Shady Lady's Sandwiches."

"Dude, it was untouched."

"You don't know that."

Carlton took advantage of their marital-like squabbling to slip, unnoticed, out the nearest door. Once outside, he closed his eyes and breathed deep again, although he kept himself on alert for any sounds that might indicate Spencer had followed. In all likelihood, however, his boundless appetite had been whetted by the grilled cheese discussion and with any luck, he was already on the search for more holy food. For another moment, he savored the feel of the sun on his face and the breeze cooling the beads of sweat that had begun collecting at the nape of his neck. It wasn't good to let Spencer get to him so severely. Aside from the fact that it showed weakness, it too-often impaired his ability to do his job effectively and frankly, could well end up affecting his health in a way that could end his career. Or life.

None of which were acceptable outcomes.

With another deep breath, he opened his eyes, automatically reaching for his sunglasses and conducting a visual sweep of the surroundings. All was calm and as expected except for one minor anomaly. Squaring his shoulders, he cautiously approached the bench set at the furthermost edges of the grounds and its unexpected occupant.

"O'Hara?"

His partner's head snapped around at the sound of his voice, allowing him to see the half-eaten apple she held in one hand and the book in the other. The trapped rabbit expression that had initially crossed her face at the sound of his voice relaxed into a smile.

"Carlton—did I lose track of time? Is our lunch break over already?"

"No." He rounded the bench and dropped beside her. "I just had to escape your boyfriend."

A pained expression crossed her face. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because if I'd had lunch with him like he wanted, then he wouldn't have been able to bother you."

"You're not his keeper, O'Hara. Nor mine, for that matter. I can handle Spencer."

"Yeah, I know but still." Her nose wrinkled in that way she had when she was feeling unaccountably guilty.

"Why didn't you have lunch with him anyhow?"

"I just wanted some quiet time—maybe get some reading in. It's tough to do with Shawn around."

He could well imagine. Much as the man loved Juliet, and Carlton was well aware of just how much, it simply wasn't in Spencer's nature to remain quiet or still for long periods of time. It would certainly be a near-impossibility for him to comprehend Juliet's enjoyment of losing herself in a book when she could be actually "out in the world living life, Jules, not experiencing it secondhand!" Spencer was brilliant, no doubt about it—but he was also often denser than a brick wall when it came to human nature. In this, Carlton could relate—it had been a failing of his own for far too long, but at least he'd finally been made aware of it and had been taking steps to remedy that particular fault. And at least with respect to O'Hara's penchant for quiet time and reading, he could definitely relate. As much life—and death—as they experienced, the ability to step back and lose oneself in another world—to cocoon themselves, if only for a short period of time, was a valuable skill. More than once, he and O'Hara had spent rare moments of downtime each immersed in a book.

"Well, since I missed my lunch, I'll just take your other apple and we'll call it square."

"Deal." She handed over the brilliant Red Delicious that had been resting on the books stacked between them. Admiring the apple's glossy, unblemished surface for a moment, he bit into it, savoring the crisp crunch, followed by the sweet sharp burst of flavor with visceral satisfaction. His partner was the only other person he knew who loved the Reds as much as he did, everyone else around the station preferring either the sharper Granny Smiths or the too-sweet Honeycrisps and Galas. For him and O'Hara, however, Red Delicious provided the perfect balance. When fall rolled around, he could count on finding an apple resting on his desk most mornings, along with a seemingly endless supply during long stakeouts.

"I'll buy you coffee later," he mumbled around a mouthful of apple.

"That'd be nice," she replied somewhat distractedly, her attention already back on the book she held. Curious, he looked through the ones resting between them. _My __Life __in __Paris_ and _Mastering __the __Art __of __French __Cooking_. Leaning forward slightly, he read the spine of the book she held: _Julie __& __Julia_.

"What's with the interest in Julia Child?"

She glanced up, eyes wide and startled. "What?"

"All of your books—they have something to do with Julia Child. What gives?" He drew the heavy blue-jacketed volume of _Mastering_ onto his knee as he eased back against the bench. Keeping the juicy apple well away from the still-pristine pages, he carefully thumbed through the pages, exotic-sounding recipes like Boeuf Bourguignon, Côtes de Veau, and Tarte Normande aux Pommes skimming beneath his fingers. Looking more closely, he read the English subtitles: beef stew, veal cutlets, and apple custard tart. Okay, so not so exotic in English, but they sounded good, nevertheless.

"How'd you know that?"

"Know what?"

"That they all had to do with Julia Child?"

All he did was raise an eyebrow, smiling faintly at her blush.

"Never mind. Sorry," she stammered. "It's just when Shawn saw the books, he said—"

"I'm not Shawn," Carlton broke in mildly, really not wanting to know what inanity Spencer had spouted. After all, this was the same man who claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary in a grilled cheese sandwich.

Her searching blue gaze met and held his steadily. In a very quiet voice she said, "No—you're not." After a moment of silence she added, "I'm thinking of trying my own version of the "Julie and Julia" project."

He remained silent, waiting for her to elaborate. After a moment, she gestured toward the book resting on his knee. "Julie Powell cooked her way through _Mastering_ over the course of a year and blogged about her progress."

"Why?"

"Because cooking was her salvation. Because she was approaching her thirtieth birthday and felt she hadn't fulfilled any of her potential." O'Hara sighed and glanced down at the book resting in her own lap. "Because she'd never really finished anything she ever started."

He turned slightly on the bench to better face her. "I don't see either of those things as an issue for you, O'Hara. You're fulfilling your potential as a cop and God knows, you're one of the most stubborn, dogged people I've ever met. Leaving things unfinished simply isn't an option for you."

"I guess."

Both eyebrows rose. "You _guess_?"

A sheepish grin graced her features along with another faint blush. "I get that those were Julie's issues and not necessarily my own, but I don't know. At its heart, it's... more."

"Then what?"

"You can't possibly want to hear about my existential crisis," she protested, head bent as she occupied herself with wiping her hands clean and tossing her apple core into a paper bag.

"I believe I just asked. And you know me—if I didn't want to know, I wouldn't bother." Plus, existential crisis? If there was anyone he imagined was completely grounded and secure, it was O'Hara. The fact that she was using words like "crisis" had him on high alert, so yeah, damn skippy he wanted to hear about it.

"O'Hara?" he prompted in a gentler voice than he would ever use with anyone else.

"Julie Powell…" she began slowly, "and Julia, herself—they were looking for… more. And in cooking… they found something."

He took his time considering her statement before responding. "You think they found their answers in cooking?"

"Maybe not answers, per se." She glanced up with a crooked smile. "But maybe… illumination?"

Again, he carefully considered her words. "I guess I can see that."

Her eyes widened, a full ring of white visible around the blue. "You can?"

It was his turn to feel a blush creeping up his neck and over his face. "Yes," he responded gruffly, dropping his apple core into the paper bag and accepting the napkin O'Hara held out. Wiping his hands clean he added, "I may not be the most insightful person in the world, but I can respect the hell out of anyone for whom it comes more readily."

"You're more insightful than you think, Carlton. You at least make the effort."

Despite her calm expression and reassuring smile, he could nevertheless read all she'd left unsaid and felt a twinge of sadness for his partner. It was hell to be in love with someone with whom you weren't in sync. He'd learned that the hard way with Victoria. And gotten a fleeting taste of what that sort of synchronicity could be like with Marlowe.

"So—" he said, trying to steer the conversation away from insight and personal relationships. "Julie Powell made all these recipes in a year, you say?"

She nodded as she gathered the books into a neat stack. "All five hundred and twenty-four of them, but that's unrealistic for me. She cooked every night after she got home from work and given that some nights we don't even make it home—I just can't commit to that." Releasing a gusty sigh, she slumped against the bench's curved back. "Besides, it's not like I'm blogging or trying to prove anything and you know, maybe the whole thing is just an unrealistic goal."

Completely unaccustomed to seeing his partner so quickly defeated—defeated at all, actually—Carlton found himself responding with an alarmed, "Why?"

"It's silly."

"O'Hara…"

"Okay, okay…" She threw her hands up in a gesture of surrender, although an unreasonably high flush stained her skin. In that moment, Carlton could just _see_ her, standing in a hot kitchen, a streak of flour across her cheek, wooden spoon clenched in hand, the tip of her tongue peeking from between her teeth as she perused the now-stained pages of the cookbook, determined to beat the hell out of whatever recipe was presenting the current challenge.

And for the life of him, he couldn't figure out _why_ he was seeing the scene so clearly, almost as if he was right there with her, nor why it was causing an unaccountable sense of what could only be described as longing deep in his gut.

"It's just that… Julia and Julie both—" She stopped and looked out past the trees and the street and the passing traffic and off into a distance only she could see. "They both had someone to cook for. Julia had Paul and Julie had her husband, Eric. They were there, along every step of the journey, sharing in the highs and lows and enjoying the fruits of their efforts."

"But—" Carlton started, then stopped at Juliet's look.

"Shawn thinks corn dogs are haute cuisine."

Carlton cringed even as he agreed. "True."

"Besides, he'd most likely think that strict adherence to a recipe would be akin to submitting to the Man and he'd be badgering me to commit anarchy and God only knows what else and I'd completely screw up the recipe and then he'd just wind up ordering Chinese."

Again, left unsaid would be that Spencer would, without a doubt, not get what Juliet was after with this project. To be fair, much as Carlton hated to admit it, he'd probably try, but there were simply too many factors inherent in both his nature and his upbringing conspiring against his ability to comprehend or appreciate what she was trying to do.

"I'll do it."

"What?"

It took both Juliet's startled response coupled with her shocked expression for Carlton to realize he'd spoken aloud. "Never mind," he muttered, busying himself with collecting the paper bag and rising to toss it in the nearby garbage can. "I'll see you inside." He took off for the building at a brisk clip, breathing deep the whole way.

"No, Carlton, wait!"

Behind him, he heard O'Hara scrambling to gather her things, followed by the sound of her footsteps.

"Dammit, Carlton, wait up—it's impossible to run across the grass in these heels!"

The temptation to speed up and oh, maybe go hide in the bathroom, was near overwhelming, but much as he wanted to, he couldn't do that to her.

"Carlton?"

He waited in the shady alcove by the door, hoping it would mask the heat he could feel flooding his face. Dammit, he hadn't blushed this much since he was sixteen. Maybe not even then.

"What did you mean that you'd do it?"

"Forget it, O'Hara—this is your thing. I shouldn't be trying to muscle in."

"You're not," she replied reasonably. "At least, it doesn't sound as if you are." Holding the door open, she looked at him expectantly, then let it drift shut at the shake of his head. "What did you mean?"

He wasn't even sure. Hell, he hadn't even been aware he'd spoken. All he'd been able to see was that image of her, flour-streaked and flushed and feeling overwhelmed with the sense that he was _there_, dammit.

"If," he began, carefully trying to formulate the right response, "you'd, um… like company. Or help. Or—hell, never mind," he repeated, yanking the door open and striding through. Thankfully, she didn't immediately follow, hitting him with a barrage of questions. It was a stupid impulse anyhow, not one worth any kind of serious consideration.

The rest of the afternoon he kept himself buried in paperwork, grateful, for once, that no cases erupted that would require being alone in the car with O'Hara for any length of time. Grateful that, despite her occasional curious glances across the distance separating their desks, she didn't feel the need to bring it up again. Clearly, she'd gotten the gist of what he'd been trying to say and had realized it for the utter ridiculous folly it was. Besides, this was her journey—he didn't have a damn bit of business interfering.

It wasn't until late that night, sitting in bed with a military campaign book he was reading but couldn't recall a damned thing about, that he heard from her in the form of his text alert going off.

_I figure Wednesdays and Sundays are doable. Easier recipes on Wednesdays & more elaborate on Sundays when we'll have more time. First up: Pipérade (an open-faced omelette) and Soupe À L'Oignon (i.e. onion soup). 7PM tomorrow._

_Bring wine._

Bemused, he stared at the screen until it went dark, the words scrolling through his mind until the alert pinged again and the screen lit up with a new message.

_Yes, I really mean it and yes, I would really enjoy your company. _

Once again, he simply stared at the screen, reading the words until yet another new alert replaced them.

_Shut up, Carlton. Stop thinking so much. Unless it's about the wine. See you tomorrow after work._


	2. Chapter 2: SAUCES

**Sauces**

Nope, still don't own **psych**. As usual, no infringement intended.

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><p>Juliet meditatively stirred the onions as she watched the minute hand inch forward once more. Six fifty-five. He should be here within the next five minutes because while Carlton was many things, one thing he never was, was late. Provided he even showed. Mind, he hadn't given any indication that he would stand her up—then again, he hadn't given any indication that he'd received her texts and intended to accept her invitation. Come to think of it, he'd given no indication that anything at all was different from any other Wednesday. They'd worked a case in the morning, done paperwork in the early afternoon, then he'd disappeared for his standing appointment with Marlowe at the Women's Correctional Facility.<p>

She didn't get it. Well, on a certain level she did. She got that Carlton had felt an immediate connection with the other woman, but once it was revealed why she had approached him so aggressively and that she'd been an active participant in theft, Juliet would have thought that would've been it for Carlton. He was such a hardliner when it came to procedure and rules and the law. But nope—clearly, not enough. He'd been able to look past it and push his own personal envelope—to make an exception where once upon a time, such a move would have been unthinkable.

With a slow, unerring rhythm, she continued stirring the onions as she mulled over how far her partner had come. And yet at the same time, not really. After all this time, she couldn't believe he'd even question that she'd enjoy his company. And even though he hadn't said anything, she _knew_ he'd questioned it. Why else cut himself off and run away before she could give him an answer? Go all remote and quiet and internal for the rest of the day?

It was why she hadn't hounded him past those texts and had played along with his desire to act as if nothing was amiss or off-kilter today. And why she worried he wouldn't show up. Damned stubborn, cranky, insecure—

The doorbell's melodic chime interrupted the righteous rant she was formulating and made her look up at the clock. Six fifty-nine. Well, well, well… He'd shown. Hopefully not to make some half-assed excuse, because she wouldn't put that past him and that unshakable sense of honor. The dolt.

After making certain the onions were spread evenly over the pan's surface, she wiped her hands on the dishtowel she had tucked into her chef's apron as she made her way to the front door, calling out, "Coming!" as the doorbell chimed once more.

Opening the door, she discovered Lassiter standing on the other side, a bottle of wine clutched in each hand, along with a grocery bag looped over one wrist, a baguette, peering over the top edge.

"Since I'm guessing we have some time to go before we eat, I brought a bottle for before along with some brie, toasted French bread rounds, and since I'm guessing you didn't feel up or have the time to tackle baking, yet, a baguette to go along with the soup and omelette and then another bottle to have with dinner itself."

The words emerged in a compressed rush, on what sounded like one breath, his face growing more flushed with every word, though whether it was because of lack of oxygen or something else, Juliet couldn't be certain. Biting back the smile she felt threatening, she reached forward, relieving him of the wine while at the same time urging him through the door.

"I left a hanger on the coat rack for your jacket and holster." She gestured with one wine bottle as she led the way to the kitchen. "Come on into the kitchen after you're done. I have to check on the onions." Plus, she figured he needed a moment to himself if only so he could draw a complete breath.

In the kitchen, she quickly fished a corkscrew from a drawer and placed it on the table along with the wine before turning her attention to the onions, trying like hell not to glance toward the doorway. Normal. She would treat this like any of their normal, everyday interactions. Wasn't that different, really—they even spent a fair amount of off-duty time together, albeit usually in the company of others, on department outings like picnics or softball games or holiday parties. Come to think of it, she couldn't really think of the last time she and Carlton had spent any time together—just the two of them—away from the job that didn't have something, even peripherally, to do _with_ the job.

Huh.

For the first time she began to get a true sense of Carlton's discomfort. And thing is, maybe it _should_ feel weird. But… it didn't. Yeah, at the outset of this project she'd entertained visions of Shawn maybe getting into it—it involved food, after all—and sitting with her and talking to her and maybe even helping, but even before the image had fully formed, it had dissipated into a wispy haze only lightly tinged with longing.

Come _on_—this sort of scene simply wasn't Shawn. A fact she'd well known going in. And she'd never been the clingy type of girlfriend who forced a boyfriend to change to suit her or her expectations. Especially since expectations and Shawn Spencer were most assuredly _not_ mixy things and anyhow, Shawn was the way he was and she'd fallen for him because of the way he was.

So she'd determined to forge ahead anyhow… maybe… and then it felt kind of weird, for the reasons she'd outlined to Lassiter during their impromptu heart-to-heart the day before. And then he'd blurted out his offer and retracted it, just as fast, but in those few seconds, she'd been hit with an inexplicable sense of _yes_.

Carlton might not think so, the stubborn dolt, but he really was the perfect person to share this journey with.

And maybe some of the illumination she was hoping to garner from this wacky experiment could serve to provide the reason why.

"Uh, would you like me to open the wine?"

Snapping her head around, Juliet found Carlton had made it into the kitchen undetected and now stood near the table, one long-fingered hand hovering over the corkscrew, uncertainly, it seemed.

When she didn't immediately answer, that same hand retreated to the safety of his pants' pocket as he sidled away from the table and closer to the doorway. "I didn't distract you from an important step, did I?"

She shook her head. "Not at all. I need to flour the onions then add the stock. It's pre-made, because I didn't have time to make homemade beef stock, but at least it's organic, so the quality should be good."

"I'm sure it'll be fine." A half-smile crossed his face although it didn't reach his eyes which were darting around, lighting on everything except her face, it seemed. "It, uh—already smells great."

"Thank you. I took Julia's advice to heart and used the best quality ingredients I could get my hands on. Then it's just a matter of following the directions and patience." An idea occurred to her. "The pantry's right behind you—could you get me the flour please?" Never mind that the flour canister resting just inches away on the counter was full.

"Um, sure."

She returned her attention to the onions, listening as the door opened and closed, and then he was beside her, easing the rubber band off the bag before placing it within easy reach. But before he could beat a retreat back to the table, she spoke again. "Would you grab the measuring spoons? I need three tablespoons sprinkled over the onions while I stir."

He didn't respond, but from the corner of her eye she could see him reaching for the spoons she'd already had out and separating out the tablespoon. Just before he dipped it into the bag he asked, "Level or heaping?"

Level or heaping. He'd just asked if the spoonfuls needed to be level or heaping. Standing there, one eyebrow raised expectantly, spoon hovering over the open bag, waiting for her to answer, certain that it mattered. That he would think to take the time to even ask—he couldn't possibly know how _happy_ that simple, seemingly insignificant question made her. "You know, I'm not sure. The book's right there—see if Julia specifies."

The pages rustled. "No… I don't see anything."

Juliet blew at the piece of hair that habitually worked its way free from her ponytail to fall in her face. "There might be something in the introductory chapters—I seem to recall reading something about precise measurements being more important for baking. For this, I'm not sure it's as big a deal. Why don't we call it somewhere between level and heaping?"

"All right."

As she stirred, he carefully sprinkled flour, patiently waiting for her to incorporate each spoonful before adding another. After the third one, he reached past her to the back burner for the pan of boiling stock, having clearly read ahead in the directions. At her nod, he carefully poured it over the onions while again, she stirred, the two of them exchanging grins at the heavenly aroma. Now, it was just a matter of letting it all simmer for another hour while she prepped the ingredients for the pipérade.

"I really do want you here, you know."

He didn't look up from folding over the top of the flour bag and securing it with the rubber band, but the compression of his mouth was a clear indicator he was fighting against delivering some sort of comment to refute her statement.

"Yeah, I could do all of this by myself, but I like the company. I like _your_ company."

Silence as he turned to return the flour to its place in the pantry, but the fact that he rolled up his shirt sleeves and grabbed the sponge from the sink, wiping the counter down so it was ready for her to start on the omelette prep, spoke louder than words. Another crooked smile crossed his face as he tossed the sponge back into the sink and dried his hands, but this one made it to his eyes, prompting one in return from her.

"I need to add wine to the soup. What'd you bring?"

"A pinot gris and a merlot."

"Let's open the white. I'll add some to the soup, then we can have some with the brie. I love brie, by the way."

Yet another smile slowly emerged, broader and lighting up not just his face, but his entire demeanor, sloughing off the exhaustion from the day. The same sort of shedding she'd experienced once she'd started on the food preparation, every slice of the knife taking her further from the day's troubles.

Like a sigh of relief.

"I think you'll like this—it's a goat brie. Do you have any good preserves?"

She thought for a moment then shook her head. "Just some Smucker's strawberry jam."

"Next time, then," he replied distractedly as he pulled the cheese from the bag and placed it on the board she set on the table. "Oh, hey, this'll work though." Reaching to her fruit bowl, he retrieved a Bartlett pear and a Red Delicious apple. "Knife?"

Exchanging another grin, she handed him a paring knife then busied herself uncorking the wine and after adding the prescribed amount to the soup, poured them each a glass. As she did, she watched him peel the apple, his hands moving with surety, the skin falling away in one long strip. With quick, efficient movements, he cut the apple into slices then placed them on top of cheese-topped rounds, handing her one.

"Oh my God," she breathed around a mouthful of creamy brie and apple and toasted French bread. "Oh my God," she repeated as she closed her eyes, the better to savor the melding of sweet and tart and creamy and tangy.

"Oh, my God, this is as good as sex."

The sudden, horrifying realization that she'd actually blurted the words out loud coincided with the sound of Carlton's surprised—and undeniably amused—chuckle. She kept her eyes squeezed shut as she blindly groped for her glass, hoping the wine would cool the heat flooding her face. Before she could take a restorative gulp, however, Carlton's hand gently grasped her wrist, holding the glass just shy of her lips. Cautiously opening her eyes, she watched him use his free hand to lift his glass to hers.

"To the journey?" he offered, his blue eyes dark with the insecurity he clearly still felt. Even now.

Juliet swallowed the remnants of the fruit and cheese, and transferred the wine to her other hand, tilting the glass to gently touch his. Meeting his gaze with hers, hoping he could see how much she meant it, she repeated, "To the journey," as the crystal resonated melodically in the quiet room.

For several seconds, their gazes remained locked and somewhere in there, she could feel a subtle shifting—the sense that some corner had been turned. They'd been partners for six years and friends for nearly that long. Her life had literally been in his hands and she knew he wouldn't hesitate to trust her with his, but now…

Now felt like maybe it was the beginning of their true friendship. And that thought made her feel not just reassured, but _good_. In a comforting sort of way.

"So how are your egg-beating skills?"

He smiled, full out and finally fully relaxed. "How am I whenever I get to beat anything up?"

"Touché." She returned his grin. "I'll get you a bowl."

As she rose, Carlton reached out and grasped her wrist once more, his hold warm and extraordinarily gentle. His voice matched his hold as he quietly said, "Thank you."

She gazed down into his upturned face, feeling the comforting sensation wash over her again. "Ditto."


	3. Chapter 3: EGGS

**Eggs**

**AN: **Sorry for the delay—Real Life and all that. Hopefully, the next chapter won't take so long. You know the drill: don't own **psych**, don't pretend to, like playing in the sandbox, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', no infringement intended, yadda, yadda.

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><p>"The lamb stuffed with garlic and herbs, and maybe the orange sponge cake for dessert?"<p>

Carlton considered his partner's suggestion as he continued staring through the binoculars to the window where their current scumbag perp was paying off the lesser scumbag he'd hired to break a local high school teacher's knees. Since, like most scumbag perps, he was an _idiot_, he hadn't yet realized that Lesser Scumbag had a) been made before he could take out the teacher, thanks to Spencer and Guster, and b) was wired. Now here Greater Scumbag was, just handing over the money, simply assuming because Lesser Scumbag had handed him a newspaper with a planted item about a high school teacher being mugged the night before, that the deed had been carried out according to plan.

"Always ask for proof, asshole," he muttered under his breath. Part of him also wished that the attack _had_ been carried out, given that the teacher had been busted for holding with intent to sell. To his students. But lucky for him, _he'd_ been caught by the parents of a student with whom he was doing said drugs—as well as sleeping with. But because Greater Scumbag was a dealer of some renown and the teacher wasn't completely stupid, he'd offered the guy up in return for a plea deal. And just as they were about to bust him on the expected rape charges, the student had burst in, declaring she was eighteen—a fact her parents had neglected to mention—and hadn't started sleeping with Teacher Boy until after her birthday. Which was probably utter bullshit, but there was no way to disprove it, especially since she'd declared with all the overwrought emotion eighteen-year-old girls could muster—damned loud emotion—her undying _looooooove_ for trigonometry and the creepy little bastard. Said bastard had sat huddled in his chair, nodding along like some goddamned marionette.

In a word, this case, while technically a win, _sucked_.

"You have to let it go." His partner's comment was mild, almost gentle, yet with that underlying thread of steel that even now, six years on, could catch him unawares. And _always_ made him pay attention. "We're going to get a really bad guy off the streets. Three, really, if you count his idiot enforcer and the teacher."

His fingers tightened around the binoculars. He'd probably have the logo imprinted on his palm for hours. "Yeah, because those two getting light sentences makes me feel so much better."

"Carlton."

O'Hara's voice cut through the hazy red film clouding his vision. He knew she was trying to steady him, bring him back from the edge, and keep him from doing anything that might jeopardize their case.

"You'd better cuff the dealer—I might break the bastard's arms if I do it."

"Who's to say I won't?"

Carlton allowed himself a small grin. Yeah, it would be fun for her to cuff the perp, if only because he'd get to be witness to the expression on the jackass's face when the sweet-faced blonde slammed him up against a wall, growling out the Miranda.

In his earpiece he heard Greater Scumbag congratulating Lesser Scumbag on a job well done while through the binoculars he watched as money and oh, bonus, what looked like a bag of coke, changed hands. These guys really were idiots.

"Let's go!" he barked into his mic, tossing aside the binoculars and drawing his weapon as he bolted from the car at a dead run, O'Hara's footsteps close behind.

With a surprising minimum of fuss, outside of the gun Greater Scumbag tried to pull on O'Hara before she knocked it free and Carlton decked him, they had everyone cuffed and were on their way back to the station.

"The lamb sounds good," he said to O'Hara as if their conversation hadn't been rudely interrupted by a bust. He turned the car into the drive leading to the station.

"What about the orange sponge for dessert?"

"The hell, you two married or something?"

"Shut it, jackass," Carlton snapped to Greater Scumbag, glaring at him in the rearview mirror. To O'Hara he said, "It sounds great, but with everything you have to do for the lamb, you sure it's not too much?"

"I was actually thinking you might want to do the sponge yourself."

"But—" he started to protest, all the old feelings of horning in on her adventure rapidly surfacing. And in that way she had, she cut him off before they swamped him completely.

"Carlton, part of my wanting to do this is figuring things out for myself. One of the things I've figured out in the past six weeks is that not only do I enjoy your company, I enjoy _you_ being part of the process." As he shoved the gearshift to Park, her hand came to rest on his forearm, prompting him to turn to meet her earnest blue gaze. "The more of the work we do together, the more fun it is. Besides, you seem to be showing a real flair for desserts, Detective. The discipline of baking suits you."

He fought to contain his pride at her praise. Nevertheless, a half-grin tugged at his mouth as he confessed, "It has been fun."

"Christ even if you two aren't married, you're married. Or at least," he lazily drawled with a knowing smirk in Carlton's direction, "you're whipped as hell, dude."

In perfect synchronicity he and O'Hara turned their heads toward the back seat and snapped, "Shut up, jackass!" Looking at each other, they burst into laughter that continued as the occasional chuckle as they dropped their charge off at booking. Heading for their respective desks to fill out the requisite paperwork, Carlton looked down at O'Hara, still grinning and flush with their victory. Damn, but she was so pretty. Never more so than when kicking ass.

Those kinds of thoughts were okay, he'd decided long ago. They were objective, empirical thoughts. She was an attractive woman. And she could kick ass. The fact that the combination occasionally—okay, more than occasionally—sent a flash of something that might, just _might_, be desire shooting through him and heating his bloodstream was not a big deal. A man could find a woman attractive and desirable and it was okay. Normal, even. He'd never acted on it and never would. Especially since they were both involved with others. Never mind that they spent more time in each other's company, than with their respective significant others. And that was without time spent together during work hours, which technically, didn't count.

Which, he acknowledged, was more than a little off. His reason was legitimate, but what was hers?

"That's a funny expression you've got going, partner."

Snapping from his reverie, he noticed her gaze had turned from laughing to quizzical. Fuck. It was okay to have the thoughts—but Rule #4 was never, ever allude to them and most definitely, never let them show. She was the best partner he'd ever had. He wasn't about to screw up again.

Which meant, default to Rule #7: whenever possible, divert attention away. Hard one for him, since he did have a fondness for the spotlight. But not for this.

"Just thinking how your language has really gone to hell in the past few years."

As saves went, not bad.

She laughed and elbowed his ribs. "I may have picked that up from my partner."

He gently elbowed her back. "He's a bad influence, then."

Her smiled softened into something undeniably fond. "Only on my language."

_Craaaaaaaaaap_

But he managed to return her smile and make it to his desk before he said anything, well, stupid. That would ruin this thing they had going. Not doing that, no way, no how. Those twice weekly cooking sessions were easily the highlight of his week. After his visits with Marlowe, he amended quickly. _Little __too __quick_, _there, __bucko_, the obnoxious little internal imp who tended to pipe up at really inopportune times, whispered.

With a mental snarl at the imp to zip it, he pulled the requisite forms up on his computer. But before he could set to work, Juliet appeared at his elbow.

"Do you have the e-reader with you?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah, of course." Reaching into the his bottom desk drawer, he pulled out the e-reader he'd purchased solely so he could get a digital version of _Mastering_. It was easier than lugging around a physical copy and kept the office snoops and gossips from wondering why their Head Detective was reading a French cookbook. An unexpected benefit came in the form of allowing him and O'Hara to discuss menus and recipes at any given moment.

"I just want to double check the ingredients—I'm stopping by the store on my way home."

Still unnerved by the obnoxious imp, whom he could almost hear chuckling evilly in the background, Carlton handed O'Hara the e-reader, absent-mindedly adding, "If you forget anything, just text me later. I'm going to hit the Farmer's Market tomorrow."

He tried to focus on the arrest report, but it was difficult what with O'Hara still hovering by his elbow—close enough for him to feel her body heat along his entire right side and smell the light vanilla fragrance that was her preferred perfume. Close enough that he could sense her unease and an indecisiveness that was uncharacteristic, to say the least. Glancing up, he saw that she had her head down, ostensibly studying the e-reader's screen, but in truth, studying him from beneath lowered lashes.

"Is there something else?" He attempted to have the question come out in his trademark impatient bark, but instead, heard it emerge on a distinctly concerned note. _Not_ good.

Beneath her suit jacket, her chest rose and fell, a sibilant "Would you mind if I tagged along with you to the Farmer's Market?" emerging on the exhale.

Abandoning the report, he leaned back in his chair, studying his partner's still-downcast head. "Don't you usually reserve Saturdays as Spencer Time?"

She fidgeted, looking for all the world like she was awaiting a particularly unwanted turn in the confessional.

"Never mind. None of my business." He shook his head as he snapped his chair forward. "Of course you can come. I like to get there when they open, so I'll pick you up at eight-thirty." And then that damned imp piped up again, prodding Carlton with his stabbity little pitchfork to add an acerbic, "Should still give you plenty of time to spend with Spencer."

Moments passed and still, he could feel her presence beside him. Finally, she said, "I'm not seeing him tomorrow. Wasn't particularly interested in the Scooby Doo marathon he and Gus are planning on mainlining. Especially since he's using it to give him ideas for alternative investigative techniques."

"Jesus Christ," Carlton muttered under his breath before spinning his chair to fully face O'Hara. Despite the distinct sensation that this was one of the more monumentally bad ideas he'd ever had and God knows, he'd had more than his share, he still couldn't stop the words that came out. "I go every Saturday. Same time. You're welcome to come along any time you want. Better stuff there than at the grocery store anyhow."

The sheer brilliance of her smile momentarily obliterated any concerns that his suggestion was the Worst One Ever. He had brought that smile to her face with a seemingly simple offer. And besides, how could anything that made Juliet so happy be bad, right?

Right?

_Who, exactly, are you trying to convince, bucko?_

Mentally telling the imp to shut the fuck up, he tapped the e-reader O'Hara still held. "Make the list—we might as well pick everything up tomorrow morning. Eight-thirty."

He turned back to his computer and the waiting arrest report, pretending not to notice the glancing touch O'Hara brushed against his back as she retreated to her own desk.

But he'd be lying if he didn't admit to feeling it well into the night. And that because of it, sleep was damned hard to come by.


	4. Chapter 4: ENTRÉES & LUNCHEON DISHES

**Entrées & Luncheon Dishes**

As usual, don't own **psych**, don't pretend to, like playing in the sandbox, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', no infringement intended, yadda, yadda.

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><p>Juliet O'Hara, decorated veteran of the Santa Barbara Police Force had faced down the most hardened criminals, the most strung out junkies… she'd even faced down death itself—admittedly, with a subsequent breakdown, but in the moment, she'd barely flinched—however, nothing had ever terrified her quite as much as her current foe.<p>

"Oh, come _on_, O'Hara."

"Shut up, Carlton," she muttered, still glaring at her intended target.

"Well, it's not going to take care of itself—either you do it, or I will."

"The hell you will. This one's _mine_."

"So you keep saying, but I'm not seeing any actual action happening."

"Carlton, I swear to God, if you don't stop talking—"

"You'll what? Nail me with a stony glare? I don't see that working any great wonders on your current victim."

"Lest you forget, partner, I _am_ holding a deadly weapon."

"Mine's bigger," he taunted with that arrogant sing-song in his voice that used to drive her bananas, but these days, tended to make her roll her eyes if she was in a bad mood or more often than not, simply grin and shake her head.

"That's only because you have those freakishly large hands," she shot back, allowing herself a sidelong glimpse of said hands. Not freakish, really. The palms themselves were proportionate to the rest of his build and while the fingers _were_ ridiculously long, they were strong and graceful and gave a lovely elegance to his hands without rendering them in the least bit feminine.

Not that she'd devoted any time to thinking about this. Not at all. It was just a culmination of observations gleaned over the years. No surprise, really, that she knew her partner's hands almost as well as she knew her own.

"O'Hara, seriously—this isn't that hard."

"What, you've done it?"

As Carlton remained uncharacteristically quiet, she finally looked directly at him, the answer to her question written clearly across his face and in the fact that he wouldn't directly meet her gaze.

"I cannot believe you did it," she exclaimed.

"Only just once," he protested, raising his hands in surrender, the kitchen lights reflecting off the boning knife he held, the silver glints matching the silver scattered throughout his dark hair.

"Well, if you can do it, then I can, too." She turned back to the kitchen island and her nemesis.

"Isn't what I've been saying all along?"

"It's different now," she muttered, eyeing the chicken carcass resting on the maple cutting board. "Now it's personal."

The mocking tone returned to his voice as he drawled, "Would it make you feel better if we raced?"

Oh … She knew he was just being sarcastic, but his offhand challenge coupled with the fact that she now knew he'd practiced boning a chicken brought every competitive instinct she possessed to the fore.

Leaning an elbow on the granite surface, she studied her partner. "What're the stakes?"

Both eyebrows rose towards his hairline. "Are you serious?"

"Dead."

His eyes narrowed, the brilliant blue reduced to mere slits as he clearly began considering her challenge. "Loser buys morning coffee for a month?"

Juliet considered the offer, then nodded. "Agreed." As she crossed to the refrigerator to retrieve the second chicken they'd bought the day before, she heard Carlton behind her, opening a cabinet without hesitation and pulling out another cutting board, followed by the slide of the drawer where she kept the latex gloves, after three months nearly as comfortable in her own kitchen as she was.

A deeply comforting thought, especially considering that after all these months, she _still_ had to remind Shawn where she kept the toilet paper and dreaded whenever he offered to "help" unload the dishwasher, knowing she'd never find anything in its proper place.

_There was room for it, Jules and besides, don't you think it might have wanted a change of scenery? Make some new friends?_

_It's a stainless steel skillet, Shawn. And you put it in the pantry. Behind the flour._

_Segregation, Jules? I'm shocked. And somewhat dismayed. But hey, since you've got the flour out, you think you might want to make some pineapple pancakes?_

_I don't have pineapple._

_Yeah, you do. When I did the grocery shopping for you, I stocked up on some staples you were clearly lacking._

_That would explain the Fruity Pebbles and GoGurts. But I didn't see any pineapple._

_Well, the pantry was full, so I put it in that cabinet._

_With the cleaning supplies and insect repellents? Shawn!_

_Annnnnd we're back to the whole segregation thing. Really, Jules, you have to be more open-minded. Is this rigid mindset what you really want your children growing up with? I'd expect it of Lassie's children, that is, if he ever gets to be with his woman without the benefit of bulletproof glass between them for long enough to procreate._

She still needed to fix the dent in the wall, she mused, recalling the conversation that had ended with her hurling the can of pineapple and his ducking, just in time. After he'd expressed predictable outrage and confusion, she'd gotten it through his thick skull that teasing Lassiter about his relationship with Marlowe, even in absentia, was cruel. And in a rare moment of Zen-like calm and sincerity for Shawn, he'd made the observation that ever since Marlowe and Lassiter had been together, he'd noticed the older man had been less hair-trigger and far slower to anger on the whole.

As Juliet had fought back an odd sensation that was most assuredly _not_ jealousy, Shawn had gone on to add that it seemed in the last three months in particular, Lassiter's mood had been downright cheerful and that frankly, it was mildly disconcerting.

He'd then, in true Shawn fashion, followed it with some smart-ass comment about secret weddings and conjugal visits that Juliet only half-heard, still mulling Shawn's "last three months in particular," comment.

It _could_ be coincidence, after all, that Shawn's observation coincided with the same period during which she and Carlton had been cooking together. Yeah, it probably was. It wasn't as if she and Carlton discussed his relationship with Marlowe, after all, and her relationship with Shawn only ever came up within the context of work-related situations. It was as if they'd made the tacit decision that their cooking time—which included their shopping time on Saturdays, which also now included spending time doing any prep work necessary for the next day's recipe, and sometimes extending into having coffee or wine afterward, depending on whether she'd made plans with Shawn or not—were reserved just for them and their cooking adventures and any of the various topics that tended to branch from there. Which were wildly varied, when she thought about it. The man she'd once known to have a _very_ limited scope of interests had turned out to be genuinely curious about any and everything. Which had a way of making for lovely, long conversations over their meals. And while sometimes his opinions tended to make her want to smack him solidly upside the head, at the same time, they did force her to think, in order to refute them.

She couldn't remember the last person she'd so enjoyed arguing with.

"So, O'Hara, you going to keep staring at that bird as if you expect it to debone itself or are you chickening out?"

Rolling her eyes, she plopped Carlton's chicken on the cutting board in front of him. "Chickening out, really?"

"If the wing fits—"

"Dear God, stop, please," she begged, even as giggles threatened to erupt. "Not fair, Carlton."

"All's fair in love and war, O'Hara." He smiled that full-out, cheeky, completely delighted smile that had only ever made the rare appearance at work but that in the last three months, had become increasingly frequent—at least on Wednesdays, Sundays, and many Saturdays. And that had started making her catch her breath whenever it crossed his face. In surprise, she told herself, simply because it was still so new.

"Oh, you are so _on_, Lassiter," she retorted and if her voice was a little more higher pitched than normal, then she could put it down to adrenaline. Her hand poised over the kitchen timer, she glanced at him standing alongside her, knife at the ready. "Go!"

The timer's ticking acted like the bell for Pavlov's dog, sending her into the same zone she went into when assembling and disassembling her weapon. With a sure stroke, she cut along the chicken's backbone, pulling the meat away with swift, short cuts and her fingers, recalling in her mind's eye, the illustrations from the book and Julia's concise directions. Completely unaware of Carlton's progress, yet utterly aware of his presence beside her, she worked steadily, disengaging first one breast, then the other, removing the skin, and even flattening them with the side of her blade at Julia's urging, creating the perfect _supremes_ to be used in the _De __Volaille __Aux __Champignons_ that was on tap for today's dinner.

"Done!" Her knife hit the board with a triumphant smack as she looked over at Carlton, still in the process of removing the skin from the second breast. Juliet waited for him to finish, same as she had, by flattening the breasts, placing his knife down on the board, and stripping the latex gloves off.

"I concede the battle, madam," he admitted with yet another version of that beautiful smile, the one that made tiny lines fan from the corners of his remarkable eyes.

"You concede?" she repeated, definitely wanting to hear him say it again. Just to make sure she hadn't imagined it. Maybe with another smile.

He granted her silent wish, smiling again as he said, "Yes, O'Hara, I concede. You won, fair and square, not that I had any doubt whatsoever."

She launched herself at him, chanting, "I won, I won, I won!" between gasping, triumphant laughs.

Propping himself on a nearby stool, Carlton caught her as he laughed along with her. "Yes, I believe we covered this already, O'Hara. You won."

"I _won_." Breathless, she leaned in to kiss his cheek, her mouth glancing against the corner of his as she lost her balance.

They both froze—Carlton's hands tightening on her waist to steady her—Juliet's hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, not so much for balance, but out of sheer surprise. From finding her mouth pressed even incidentally against her partner's. And even more so, at the pure intensity of the desire that gripped her—the knowledge that _incidental_ was the least of what she wanted.

For long moments they remained still, her lips half on his cheek, half on his mouth, the both of them breathing shallowly and slowly as his hold changed, loosened, but only just enough for her to pull away if she wanted.

She wasn't pulling away.

And neither was he.

However, he was also clearly leaving whatever happened next up to her.

Slowly, tentatively, she moved her head in the smallest increments, feeling the texture beneath her lips shift from beard-roughened to firm, maybe slightly chapped, but soft for all that. Like a puzzle piece, her mouth slid into place, seamlessly finding a comfortable fit against his For long moments she remained there, exploring the sharp, defined bow of the upper lip and the full, surprisingly sensual curve of the lower, simply through touch. Only when she felt the tremor in his hands did she allow herself to lean forward more completely, increasing the pressure of her lips to his as her hands traveled from chest to shoulders, finally finding purchase in his hair. Molding herself to him and silently communicating that it was now his turn—he could explore.

Juliet, had she ever given it a thought before this moment, might have imagined that giving a man like Carlton Lassiter free rein would be an invitation for his natural aggression and impatience to take over. But he surprised her yet again, moving every bit as slowly as she had, angling his head to one side, deepening their connection, the very tip of his tongue emerging and doing nothing more than tracing the outline and seam of her lips, begging only the slightest of entrances.

Even when one hand left her back and rose to pull her hair free of her ponytail, he remained utterly gentle and completely in control, though the tension in his thighs where they held her steady and the trembling of the hand still on her back communicated that it wasn't without effort. And still he moved slowly, combing his fingers through her hair, sparking a heated tingling along her scalp before delicately tracing the shell of her ear, a sensation that would be ticklish under any other circumstances but almost unbearably erotic in this one.

_I would do anything he asked right now._

The thought broke through the sensual fog, resonating with the clarity of the mission's bells of a Sunday morning. She should've felt alarmed. Should've drawn back, appalled that something that had started out as an innocent gesture of friendship had evolved into something decidedly _not _innocent yet still as pure as anything she'd ever experienced. Yet instead of pulling away in horror or shame, however, she found herself leaning more fully into Carlton, one hand leaving his hair to snake around his back and hold him more closely. Because superseding even the intense desire driving her to do anything he asked, was the desire to not let go.

Judging by how his arms tightened around her, he felt the same.

And she couldn't bring herself to feel anything but relief and a renewed sense of _yes._

There was no telling how long they stood there, wrapped in and around each other, content to do nothing more than kiss despite the desire roiling just below the surface. Finally, however, he eased back, his hands—those graceful, strong hands—framing her face. Silently, he gazed down at her, his eyes the exact color of the perfect winter's day—the kind where the skies were endless and the weather just crisp enough to make a body want to stay inside, curled up by a fire.

"I've wondered for the longest time what that would be like."

His voice was low, an unfamiliar husky quality coloring the words as his thumb traced her still-tingling lips, soothing the heated, abraded skin surrounding them.

"I think I have, too," she replied, not surprised to hear the same quality in her own voice.

"You understand I've wondered about more, right?"

She nodded, not interested in playing coy or disingenuous.

With a sigh, he pulled her close once more, his cheek resting on her hair.

"I think what we need to do now, though, is finish making our dinner. Treat this like every other Sunday dinner we've enjoyed for the last three months."

"But Carlton," she began, her voice muffled against the fine cotton of his shirt, then stopped, savoring the warmth of his skin through the fabric and the rapid, steady beating of his heart beneath her cheek. Carefully, she spread the fingers of one hand across his chest, as if trying to capture and hold just that little bit of him. Because she _knew_—he was drawing away. He was going to be all honorable and decent and act as if none of this had ever happened.

A cold shard of fear pierced her chest at the thought.

"Juliet—I'm not going anywhere." His hand rose to cover hers on his chest. "I promise. I just need us to revert to something more normal before I do something really stupid."

She tried to pull away, but he only let her go far enough for their gazes to meet. "Making love to me would be stupid?" Because there was no point in beating around the bush. They both knew it.

"Not for me," he admitted with that endearing half-grin that took years off him. "Making love to you would probably be the smartest thing I've ever done. But it would be stupid for you. Not to mention, unfair, given the circumstances. And we both know it."

"You could let me make up my own mind, you know," she grumbled even as she relaxed into his embrace.

"And what would your mind say? Really?"

Damn him for knowing her almost better than she knew herself.

"That we should make dinner." She sighed as she pulled away and this time, he let her go, though not without considerable regret reflected in his eyes.

Damn. Him.

Part of her wished he would be that guy—the one who would reach out and take exactly what he wanted without a second thought for anyone or anything else. Thing was though, that guy would let go just as readily as he took. Go on to the next thing. The bigger part of her understood she wanted Carlton Lassiter just as he was—the guy who, when he took, would take for keeps and never, ever let go.

Given all that had happened, the rest of their evening nevertheless went surprisingly smoothly. They easily fell into their usual rhythms and patterns, preparing and consuming their meal, enjoying their conversation, and if there was maybe a little more awareness—an indefinable electric charge—then it just made the evening that much more interesting. Infused everything they did with an air of mystery that only made Juliet want more.

But she couldn't have more. Not yet.

They lingered at the door, temptation weaving between them in teasing, quicksilver bursts as they discussed the next day's weather and softball practice and her upcoming weapons recertification. Anything but what they both really wanted to talk about. It wasn't until he looked down at her and asked, "So for tomorrow, a redeye with extra cream and sugar?" that all of the evening's emotion finally overwhelmed her. She leaned forward into his arms, certain without a doubt that he would be there to hold her up. After resting her forehead against his chest long enough to absorb the feel of his heartbeat, knowing that she'd use the memory of it to lull her to sleep tonight, she lifted her head and pressed her mouth to his in a kiss that was as much sweet and comforting as it was loaded with sensuality and promise.

"I'll talk to Shawn soon," she whispered.

He nodded as he drew back and cupped her cheek in his hand, his thumb once more tracing her lips. "Okay."

When he didn't say anything more, she swallowed hard. "And what about Marlowe?"

The porch light glinted off the silver in his hair and turned his eyes an opaque, unreadable blue.

"I ended it with her a month ago." He leaned forward and gave her one last, fleeting kiss. "Sleep well. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

Sleep well? Fingers digging into the wood of the doorjamb, she stared at the taillights of his car as they disappeared down the street.

Sleep _well_?

Was he freaking kidding?

Not only was she coming to grips with the fact that by all indications she'd broken her biggest rule and had in all likelihood fallen in love with her partner, but now he was telling her he'd broken up with his girlfriend and oh, by the way, sleep well?

That's it. She was going to have to kill him.

_After_ he brought her coffee tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5: COLD BUFFET

**Cold Buffet**

As usual, don't own **psych**, don't pretend to, like playing in the sandbox, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', no infringement intended, blah, blah, fishcakes.

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><p><em>Sleep well.<em>

Christ, he might as well have cursed himself, given that it was currently 3:17AM and here he was, slouched on the sofa and nursing his third—or was it his fourth?—tumbler of Jack.

_Sleep __well_.

Right. As if he could, after the night he'd had. Or hadn't, rather. But it was the right thing to do, dammit. That was an absolute. Stopping things before they went any further, neither of them getting _any_ sleep by God, until they collapsed sated and exhausted. Maybe sometime next Thursday.

The fact that such a scenario was even a possibility had him even more agitated than the frustration that had had him clutching the steering wheel in a death grip the entire way home and cracking open a fresh bottle of Jack as soon as he'd crossed the threshold. The _only_ reason he wasn't collapsed in a mind-numbing stupor was the desire to stay sober enough to keep reliving every damned second of that kiss—of the feel of her mouth against his, her body molded to him like a piece he'd been missing… hell, forever. The only bitch of it was no sooner would he be sinking into the arousal the memory of those kisses produced than two little words would worm their way into his mind and dump the emotional equivalent of a bucket of cold water.

_Never again. _

He'd _sworn_, dammit. Never again would he, Carlton Lassiter, jeopardize his career or that of his partner. Never again would he have an affair with a colleague, no matter how brilliant or beautiful or funny or more absolutely perfect for him than anyone he'd ever met before, she might be.

Never again.

And for six years, he'd adhered to that promise. Hell, as annoyed as he'd been that she and Spencer had started dating, part of him had been sadly relieved. Because if they were together, then his role as partner and friend—as protector—was clearly delineated. Not that it didn't suck mightily, as the annoying imp had had a way of reminding him, every time he witnessed Spencer's fond gaze resting on her face or the glancing touches they'd exchange when they thought no one was looking, but hell, life was a string of disappointments. And if there was anything he was an expert at, it was dealing with disappointments.

But now that the door had been opened, there was no way he'd be able to resist stepping through and into life with Juliet, even though it wasn't without a bit of guilt. As much as Spencer was a pain in his ass, he was nevertheless a colleague—one, that at times might even be considered a friend—and Carlton had gone and broken _the_ cardinal Guy Rule: falling for a friend's girl. And everyone knew even if you fell for the girl, you didn't actually act on the feelings. You sucked it up, did the right thing and stayed stoic through the whole mess.

Yeah… not gonna happen. His whole damned _life_ he'd done the right thing. He'd done noble and honorable and selfless and had what, exactly, to show for it? Bubkes, that's what. For once, provided Juliet didn't come to her senses and decide it was all a monumental mistake, _he_ had a chance to grab the brass ring and be happy. If that meant being as selfish as he'd ever been, well then, he could live with that.

Because the alternative just wasn't acceptable.

Not this time.

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><p>The day had been unseasonably cold and wet—the kind of day that penetrated every layer of clothing and sank straight into the bones—yet Carlton didn't feel a damned bit of it as he approached Juliet's house for their standing Wednesday night date.<p>

Date. He wondered when he'd started thinking of their joint cooking adventures as "dates." Definitely long before the Sunday before and the kiss that changed everything. Probably a case of him wanting too much, as his mother would scold, setting himself up for the inevitable disappointment.

_Because __Carlton, __really, __you __have __to __think __realistically. __Just __look __at __that __girl__—__and __look __at __yourself. __Do __you __honestly __think __you __have __a __chance?_

He laughed to himself as he turned into the driveway and parked behind her car.

"As a matter of fact, Mother, I do," he muttered as he grabbed the bag with supplies for the evening's dessert as well as their chosen wine and made a run for the door. Since she was home, he knew it would already be unlocked, no matter how nuts that made him, that she'd so foolishly endanger herself. Worse still, when he'd expressed his dismay, she'd merely laughed and reminded him that a) she was a crack shot and b) not so bad at hand-to-hand combat. All true, he conceded, but _still_. At the very least, he knew where the spare key was hidden if she was so insistent he let himself in.

_God_, he couldn't wait to see her. These last three days had been nuts, even by their usual standards, between her weapons recertification, followed by being called to court, and for him, a case that had crossed county lines, necessitating his being on site with the other department. All of that meant they'd hardly had five minutes together. Where before Sunday night, he might have felt her absence simply because he was so accustomed to, if not downright dependent on her presence, after what had happened between them, he _ached_ at not having her nearby. At not seeing her and arguing with her, exchanging bad jokes and movie references or just feeling her calm good nature surrounding him as they sat in the bullpen doing paperwork.

At the same time, though, he was more than a little nervous, not knowing how it would be for them, alone for the first time since then. He hoped at least a hug would be in the cards. Maybe a kiss. He could handle a kiss… maybe two, even, and keep control of himself.

Maybe.

_Damn_ but he hoped that she'd found time in the last few days to talk to Spencer.

Shouldering the door shut, he shucked his rain jacket and suit coat, expecting her to appear, as she often did, with her warm smile and what he'd learned to recognize as genuine delight turning her eyes a lovely, soft blue. Then again, it was possible she'd only just beat him here and was still in her room changing. The thought of her stripping out of one of her proper, professional suits and slipping into the sweats and loose t-shirts she favored at home caused heat to flare low in his gut, making him close his eyes and take a deep breath.

_Put a lid on it, Lassiter. You're not sixteen anymore._

Right. Like that would work. He'd _felt_ sixteen the last three days, with the kind of seriously impure thoughts that could have potentially drawn record numbers of turns on the rosary for penance—that is, if he had any interest in confessing any of this.

In lieu of a confessional, however, he'd settled for cold showers. Many of them.

Allowing his head to drop against the wall with a satisfying thump, he called out, "Juliet, I'm here," expecting to at least hear her replying that she'd be right there. When he was met with an unfamiliar and somewhat eerie silence, however, the tiny, razor-trimmed hairs on the back of his neck began prickling.

Quickly, he ran through what he knew: her car was parked in the driveway, the door had been unlocked, her coat was hanging on the rack in the foyer, all of the usual indications that she was already home. Yet no light spilled from the kitchen doorway or illuminated the hallway going to her room, and then there was that damnable silence. No music, no sounds of cabinets opening or a knife's rapid tattoo against a cutting board, no greeting that left him feeling as if his day only really started after crossing her threshold.

Something was very, very wrong.

Instinct had him drawing his weapon as he approached the kitchen, his pulse throbbing at the base of his throat, the blood roaring through his ears when he spotted her, slumped at the table. For a horrifying split-second his breathing stopped, only starting up again as she slowly turned her head to face him, a blank expression on her face.

The last time he'd seen that expression, she'd been in an interrogation room, trying to piece together her statement in the wake of the final act of the Yin/Yang case. An utterly lost expression that had broken his heart and that had nearly driven him into the interrogation room to comfort her, only pausing at Spencer's appearance. Dumbstruck, he'd watched as the other man had touched and kissed Juliet with an easy familiarity, comforting her and easing the strained, lost lines of her face into something soft and loving. And Carlton's world had experienced a seismic shift. He'd been such an idiot, he'd realized—some hidden part of his brain holding out hope that maybe someday…

Hope that had been drop-kicked straight into the Pacific at the sight of that kiss.

But that was all irrelevant now.

Holstering his gun, he knelt in front of her, cupping her cheek with his hand. "Juliet? Sweetheart?" The endearment slipped out so naturally, he barely noticed, only concentrating on how cold her skin felt against his. "What happened?"

Her blue gaze met his, the expression in them once again, so utterly lost, his free hand clenched instinctively. Whatever had been done to her—whoever had put that expression on her face—they were dead. That's all there was to it.

"Juliet, are you hurt? Talk to me, please."

Her hand rose to grip his as she blinked and shook her head. "I cannot believe him," she finally said, her voice low and raspy with what he recognized as a slow, smoldering, and in Juliet's case—potentially dangerous—anger.

"Who?" Although he was beginning to suspect. They both only knew one person capable of inspiring that sort of rage.

"Shawn."

Only marginally relaxed, now that he knew she wasn't hurt—at least not physically—he eased back into the adjacent chair and took both her hands in his.

"Did you talk to him?"

She shook her head. "I haven't had a chance." She shot him a stricken glance, loaded with apology.

"It's okay. We've both been busy."

"But I wanted to."

"I know." His hands clasped her much colder ones closely, trying to transfer some of his warmth. "I know you did. So what happened?"

In response, she shook her head wordlessly as she freed one hand from his and helplessly waved it at the oven.

For the first time, Carlton noticed it—the rich aromas filling the kitchen that, unless he'd completely lost his mind, smelled suspiciously like the _Cotes __de __Porc __Poelees_ that had been tonight's designated main dish. He'd even texted Juliet about it earlier, joking that they'd inadvertently chosen their menu well, given that the casserole sautéed pork chops would be the perfect end to a cold, rainy day.

She'd texted back that spending time with him was the perfect end to a cold, rainy day—a response that had left him thinking more of those impure thoughts and grateful for the miserable weather. Not quite a cold shower, but close enough.

With a reassuring squeeze to her hands, he rose and looked inside the oven, noting the unfamiliar casserole dish that contained, yep—pork chops.

Turning to Juliet, he found her nodding toward the refrigerator. Opening the door revealed several blank spaces, all of their carefully selected ingredients MIA.

"What the hell?"

But before she could answer, the kitchen door swung open and Spencer burst in with a breezy, "You ready, Jules?" grinning and looking expectant.

Never had Carlton wanted to punch anyone more. The only thing that kept him from doing it was the expression Juliet wore, which seemed to indicate she had first dibs on decking Spencer.

"Shawn, I told you, I couldn't. It's Wednesday."

Shawn shrugged in his typically careless manner and shot another one of his patented charming grins at the woman who, technically, was still his girlfriend. "Yeah, but I took care of it, so now you have no excuse."

"Excuse?" Juliet slowly stood, a dangerous glint in her eye. "And what do you mean, y_ou_ took care of it?"

"I paid a lady at the local cooking school—or rather, Gus paid—to make the dish you had marked with today's date in the cookbook. That way, you get your meal and don't even have to do any of the work or clean up and we can go on our date." Spencer grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

"Date?" Carlton barked, his patience stretched thin by Spencer's moronic ramblings which, despite what the other man obviously thought was a clear explanation, made absolutely no goddamned sense.

Juliet shook her head as she met his gaze. "We didn't have a date."

"Jules, of course we did," Spencer protested. "Professor MacGyver's Amazing Science Spectacular. He's gonna attempt the world record for a Diet Coke Mentos geyser. Both in height and number of geysers launched. A once in a lifetime experience, not to be missed. Gus is already waiting for us at the arena with the commemorative ponchos." Shawn leaned against the doorjamb, a blissful expression on his face as he no doubt envisioned towers of carbonated liquid shooting skyward.

"No, Shawn, we didn't have a date, because I very clearly told you I couldn't _go_." Juliet edged closer to the knife block, only stopping when Carlton gently grasped her arm. After shooting him a grateful glance, she turned back to Shawn, saying more softly, "Not only did I already have plans, I simply don't _care_ about Diet Coke Mentos geysers."

He blinked, some semblance of understanding finally dawning. "But—"

"Did you give that cook my food, too?"

"No." Shawn shook his head. "The cost of the ingredients was included in the price. But since pork doesn't keep well, I took them to my dad. He loves a good pork chop."

"So let me get this straight," she said, her tone shifting to something cold and steady and with more than a hint of menace. Carlton knew that tone. Intimately. It was one he'd honed over the years and that somewhere along the way, his partner had co-opted for herself. To devastating effect, if this example was anything to go by.

"You're saying you broke into my home, rifled through my things, and stole—"

Beneath Carlton's hand, the muscles of her arm grew increasingly tense.

"It wasn't really stealing, Jules," Shawn broke in, his hands raised in defense, even as his gaze shifted between Juliet's face and Carlton's hand resting on her arm. Even when the younger man's questioning gaze rose to meet Carlton's, he refused to give, maintaining his hold on Juliet. Spencer would likely never realize that it was probably the only thing keeping him from being boned like a duck carcass.

"I saw it more as a Robin Hood sort of thing." A smile—the annoyingly ingratiating type that Carlton had seen work to diffuse almost any situation—crossed Spencer's face. He really didn't see it working this time. "You know, think of it as distributing the wealth to everyone's benefit."

Carlton felt the tension drain from Juliet and his own heart begin to sink. She was actually going to _buy_ this bullshit dog and pony show? But no—she was shaking her head and taking a step back, away from Spencer and closer to Carlton.

"That's the problem, Shawn. As far as you're concerned, it was only about you." To Carlton, her voice was laced with sadness and a note that suggested no matter what she said, she knew Shawn wasn't going to get it. Turning to Carlton, she looked up into his face, her blue eyes pleading. "Please don't follow, okay? I need some time."

At his nod, she stepped away, her hand brushing against his in an imperceptible gesture of apology, before she turned and left the kitchen. As her footsteps echoed down the hall, Carlton turned to face Spencer who was staring at the space she'd so recently occupied, brows drawn together.

"You know," he said almost conversationally, "just because you don't understand or more accurately don't _want_ to understand something doesn't mean it's automatically unworthy of understanding."

"But," Shawn stammered, still looking in the direction Juliet had disappeared, "what is there to understand? It's just cooking some old recipes. With _you_, for God's sake." He looked at Carlton, clearly confused. "It's just cooking," he repeated, as if that explained it all.

Carlton closed his eyes against the impulse to drive his fist straight into the other man's face. "You really don't get it, do you?"

"Get _what_, man? It's not like she has a deadline or anyone's keeping score. What is the big deal about this?"

The anger drained, leaving him exhausted. The other man would really never know what he was missing. Surprisingly, the knowledge, rather than filling him with a sense of victory or satisfaction, left him somewhat sad. Shawn Spencer had been given a gift, an amazing gift, and out of sheer ego and carelessness, had squandered it. A lesson to keep in mind. "Yeah, you really don't get it." He turned to leave, pausing in the kitchen doorway. "The big deal is, Shawn, it's important to her. And the fact that it's important to her should have been enough to trump everything else."

He turned and left, knowing that no matter how much he wanted to go be with Juliet, right now, he needed to respect her wishes and allow her the time and space necessary to deal with Spencer.

As for what would come after, he could only hope.


	6. Chapter 6: CUTTING, SLICING & DICING

**Cutting: Chopping, Slicing, Dicing, and Mincing**

Hey, lookie there, two updates in one day? The muse was in a good mood and even though this was an extremely unexpected chapter, I still think it's a fun one. As usual, don't own **psych**, don't pretend to, like playing in the sandbox, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', no infringement intended, blah, blah, crème anglaise.

* * *

><p>"I'll admit, I wondered where those pork chops came from. They're seriously high quality. I assumed he'd used Gus's credit card again."<p>

"He did. Just not quite in the way you might have figured." Juliet stared down into the tumbler of whisky Henry had poured for her after she showed up on his doorstep, clutching that damned casserole and probably looking like a drowned rat. Somehow, he hadn't seemed all that surprised—had merely deposited the casserole on the stove before fetching her a towel with which to dry off her hair and pouring them both generous measures of Jameson's.

Henry took a seat across from her at the kitchen table. "So let me get this straight—he paid some cooking teacher to create the Julia Child dish you and Carlton planned on making for your dinner tonight?"

"Yep."

"And he brought me the actual ingredients you had at your house in some misguided, not to mention, completely inaccurate Robin Hood-esque impulse."

"Yep." She studied the play of light across the liquor's rich amber surface.

"And he did this, because in his mind, it would free you of what he presumed to be an unnecessary obligation in order to go on a date to Professor MacGyver's—?"

"Amazing Science Spectacular," Juliet finished when Henry faltered. "And you're three-for-three."

"Huh."

Juliet watched as Henry took a meditative sip from his tumbler.

"For Diet Coke and Mentos?"

"Uh-huh."

He took another sip as he shook his head. "He's my son and I love him, but I have to admit, he's an idiot."

Idiot was the least of it. But since silence was really the better part of valor, at least in this case, Juliet opted instead to take another sip of her drink, rather than inform Henry of all the other things she'd accused Shawn of being.

"And how did Carlton take it?"

Juliet carefully lowered her glass to the table, studying the damp circles the glass was leaving behind on the wood. Rubbing at one of them with her thumb, she slowly said, "He was pretty unhappy. You know how he is about having his routine upset."

"I do," Henry agreed. "Did he beat the crap out of Shawn or at least threaten to shoot him?"

"I wouldn't let him." Mostly because in the moment, she'd desired nothing more than to do the deed herself and God love him, Carlton had understood that. Knowing that he understood her—that he _heard_ her—was priceless.

"And he listened?" The shock evident in the older man's tone shifted to wonder as he added, "The man really does love you, doesn't he?"

Juliet's head snapped up, her gaze meeting Henry's knowing—and understanding—one. "I—uh…" Words, usually so easy for her to manufacture, fled, leaving her floundering and finally downing her drink in one enormous gulp. Luckily, since she'd grown up drinking the rotgut her father and brothers preferred, the whisky did little more than burn a fiery trail down into her stomach, leaving behind a flushed sensation that she hoped masked what she _knew_ had to be an equally fiery tone to her complexion. Not that it mattered given the way Henry was smiling, like he knew _everything_.

He calmly poured her a refill. "Don't worry—I'm fairly certain I'm the only one who knows."

Her first instinct was deny. Deny, deny, deny. And then deny some more. This was a co-worker, after all, someone who could bust her and Carlton and potentially have them separated, the thought of which sent a sharp bolt of panic slicing through her. Maybe more importantly, however, he was her now-ex-boyfriend's father. At the same time, though, it was _such_ a relief that someone else knew.

"But how?" she finally blurted, clutching the tumbler to her chest for dear life.

"You know, back in the day I was considered a pretty damn fine cop." A rueful half-grin tugged at one side of his mouth. "Had a hell of an eye for detail."

Of _course_.

He shrugged as he lifted his glass. "And these days, as a consultant, I have a lot of opportunity to observe."

She wanted to know… she didn't want to know… she wanted to know… she didn't want to know...

While her brain was still busy plucking petals from the metaphorical daisy, her voice made the decision. "What have you seen?"

"Two people trying to do the right thing." He leaned forward, propping his forearms on the table, the palm trees on his blue Hawaiian shirt leaning with him, as if offering silent commiseration. "I noticed two friends discovering a common interest that engaged them. I noticed when Carlton stopped leaving the station at the same time every Wednesday afternoon, meaning he wasn't seeing Marlowe anymore. I saw the frequent breaks together, where you'd be comparing notes. I noticed that on Thursdays and Mondays, while both of you still maintained a completely professional demeanor in the workplace, you were incredibly relaxed and happy. But the real kicker," he added almost offhandedly, "was when I saw you guys at the Farmer's Market a couple of Saturdays."

At her stunned silence, he said, "Hey, I like fresh local produce as much as the next guy." Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms and leveled a typically Henry stare at Juliet, leaving her with some sense of what it must have been like for Shawn, growing up with this man who missed so little. After making whatever assessment it was that was fermenting in his brain, he finally spoke. "You know what I saw at the Farmer's Market?"

She shook her head, half afraid, half nervously expectant.

"I saw two people who really, really like each other, Juliet." His eyes narrowed as he obviously considered his words. "Who listened to each other, who were considerate of each other, who obviously respect the hell out of each other." He leaned forward once more, gently taking the glass from her hands and setting it aside before folding them into his own. "Two people who have the foundation for a really solid relationship—the kind that you and Shawn could never really have, no matter how much you love each other."

She sighed. "I know that now. Sorry," she added with a grimace. The man _was_ Shawn's father, after all.

"No apology necessary," he replied with a wry grin that quickly faded. "I know you love him—you wouldn't have ever been with him otherwise. At the same time, though, judging by how Lassiter's been almost frighteningly cheerful the last couple of days, I have to suspect that something's finally happened between the two of you—something that goes above and beyond Shawn's stunt and no—" He held up one hand, stopping her before she could speak—not that she'd planned to, because seriously, _some_ lines had to be drawn. "I'm not fishing for details. I have to show _some_ solidarity to the kid and in this case, plausible deniability is probably a good thing."

Oh, God—he was really being so much better to her than she deserved. "Henry…"

"Don't, Juliet." His hands returned to hers. "You don't need to apologize or feel bad. I know that while he'll use some typical idiocy to mask it, Shawn's going to be hurting for a while, and because he's my son and I love him, I'm going to hurt for him, but the simple fact is, this situation is completely of his own making. There were choices he could have made, to make a relationship with you work, and he opted not to. Now, he has to pay the price."

"I never meant to hurt him."

"Of course you didn't. And it's not like it's been a one-sided deal, kiddo. He's hurt you, too—more times than you're probably willing to admit because you're such a fundamentally decent person." One hand rose to her face while the other brushed back the damp strands of her hair in a comforting gesture. "I probably have no business saying this, but you tell Carlton Lassiter he'd better treat you right or it's me he's going to have to deal with."

A giggle erupted from Juliet's throat at Henry's heartfelt declaration. In response to his quizzical expression she finally spluttered, "Poor Carlton—he can't seem to rid himself of interfering Spencer men."

"We all have our crosses to bear," Henry replied drily, prompting Juliet to slump back in her chair, a fresh round of laughter leaving her wiping tears that at some point, weren't so much about laughter. Henry merely scooted his chair close and simply held her, letting her laugh and cry and sniffle into his shirt with only a mild comment about laundry day.

After she finally settled down, he rose and disappeared for a moment, reappearing with a familiar package in hand that he placed on the table in front of her. As she looked up at him, he shrugged. "This is why you appeared on my doorstep in the middle of the worst rainstorm Santa Barbara's experienced in twenty years, hanging on to that casserole, right? You wanted to trade? So you could go cook?"

Biting her lip, she nodded.

Moving to the stove, he lifted the lid on the dish, taking an appreciative sniff. "Shawn's right about one thing—I do love a good pork chop." He grinned, a totally Spencer grin that made her heart hurt a little. "And bonus, now I don't have to cook 'em."

Silently, she rose, meeting him halfway in a fierce hug. "Henry Spencer, you tell Shawn he better appreciate you or it's me he's going to be dealing with," she whispered into his shirtfront.

"Duly noted, Detective." He hugged her one last time before releasing her. Reaching for the package of pork chops, he placed it in her hands and steered her towards the door. "Now, go on. Get out of here. I have a feeling someone's losing his mind with worry."

Oh, _God_, Carlton. He'd left her house without a word, hadn't pushed, hadn't so much as sent a text or left a voicemail, as a quick scan of her phone revealed. He'd done exactly as she'd asked, even though the not knowing had to be killing him. A sudden need to be with him, _now_, overwhelming her, she picked up her pace, grabbing her jacket and quickly slipping it on. At the door, she turned once more to Henry.

"Do you think anyone will notice if Carlton and I both call in sick tomorrow?"

"Juliet!" His eyes widened as he threw up his hands. "Plausible deniability, remember?"

She laughed the entire way out to her car.


	7. Chapter 7: TEMPERATURES

**Temperatures**

I blame, erm, dedicate this chapter completely to Loafer, who encouraged my canon-loving little soul to take a walk on the wild side. As usual, don't own _**psych**_, don't pretend to, like playing in the sandbox, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', no infringement intended, blah, blah, off the reservation.

Oh, and just to be safe, consider the rating on this chapter to be a light **M**

Also? **SHMOOP ALERT!**

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><p><em>For God's sake, Jules, Lassie? You'd get more accomplished, not to mention, have more fun, with a monkey.<em>

_Why is it so surprising that I like spending time with him?_

_Oh, I don't know, maybe because he's a pompous blowhard on a regular basis?_

_I spend time with you, don't I?_

_Ouch, Jules, that's low._

_Like your constant put-downs of Carlton aren't?_

_C'mon, you know I don't really mean them… most of the time. Honestly, he can be okay, but when he's not, he's the definition of stick-in-the-mud—that is, if Oxford took my recommendation for this year's edition of the dictionary. Sent pictures and everything._

_What? Never mind. Listen, you know why Carlton can be so prickly and arrogant?_

_I believe you may have hit the nail on the head with "prick." He's such an ass to other people. It's not such a surprise he's still alone with the exception of the jailbird girlfriend, which leaves him, look at that—alone._

_Hello, pot, meet kettle. Who can _you_ claim as a friend outside of Gus and me? And Carlton's at least man enough to insult people to their faces, not to mention, directly, rather than with obscure, too-precious pop-culture references. Look, the reason he acts the way he does is primarily because of people like you. Yes, he's a perfectionist and a workaholic and has a low tolerance for people who don't take their work or his, seriously, but he's also cranky and short-tempered because it serves to keep people at arm's length. If you don't let them too close, then they can't hurt you. Every time he's let someone get close, he's been hurt—a lot. So he simply doesn't let them close._

_That could just be the body odor._

_You just cannot stop, can you? You know what? This discussion is over. We may be dating, but that doesn't mean you have automatic monopoly on all of my free time. I am going to be cooking twice a week, and I'm doing it with Carlton. Deal with it. Or don't._

_Jules, wait—I'm sorry. Look, how about as a show of good faith, I use the extra time as an opportunity to improve my character?_

_Shawn—_

_No, no… it'll be great. For example, there's a Saved by the Bell marathon coming up that I'm sure will be instrumental in teaching me many life lessons and the proper use of hair gel._

_God, do you ever take anything seriously?_

_Anything? No... no... not really. Just the way I feel about you._

* * *

><p>Thank God for extra large hot water tanks. Carlton had run through every conversation he'd ever inadvertently overhead between Spencer and Juliet—in order—chronicling the evolution of their relationship and yet the shower was still running at near-scalding. So much so, he'd even been able to replay through that most recent conversation enough times that his skin was approaching the approximate hue of a steamed lobster. Because torturing himself just once wasn't enough. He recalled how, late one afternoon, he'd turned a corner at the station after pouring himself a cup of coffee and heard the voices, low, but unmistakably heated, and because ever since the clock tower he'd become almost preternaturally attuned to the sound of his partner's voice, he'd immediately recognized hers. Which meant the other voice had to be Spencer, because only he tended to bring out that particular note of irritation. It was her voice—specifically her assertion that she truly liked spending time with him—that had compelled him to step back into a shadowy alcove and listen, all the while berating himself that even if he appeared to be the root of the argument, it really wasn't any of his business.<p>

Yeah, right. Forget it—dynamite couldn't have uprooted him, his shock growing as he listened to Juliet not only defend but justify his behavior, laying a great deal of the blame on people like Spencer. However, the fact that she was right, both with respect to the blame as well as the motivation, had faded in light of the utter ferocity of her defense.

In retrospect, he'd pretty much been a goner since that moment.

More than once since their kiss, though, he'd found himself recalling that last conversation, sometimes blaming himself for his part, however unintentional, in the disintegration of her relationship with Spencer, but more often, ending each recollection terrified, because it represented _such_ a typical exchange for them: Spencer being his typically insensitive ass-hatted self and Juliet, while never hesitant to call him on his crap, so sweet and ultimately forgiving and willing to believe the best of everyone, even Spencer, that she'd give him yet another chance. Even her unexpectedly fierce defense of him wasn't enough to negate that fear.

He had to be honest with himself—they were talking about six years of repeated second chances versus one accidental kiss.

The odds were definitely _not_ in his favor.

Especially since he hadn't heard a single word from her since he'd left her house hours earlier.

With a muttered curse he finally spun the taps shut, realizing that no amount of hot water was going to bring answers—at least any answers he wanted to hear. In his bedroom he automatically pulled open the drawer with his pajamas—the two-piece sets with their piped collars and button down shirts in varying shades of blue and folded with military precision appearing to mock him. Christ. When the hell had he turned into such an old man? No wonder Juliet had been so fascinated with Spencer for so long. Even if the man probably slept in yesterday's clothes, it was at least different. Unpredictable. Some might even say fun-loving.

He could never be that unpredictable and carefree—it was simply too counterintuitive to his nature. Not to mention, fundamentally unhygienic. However, there was no law that said he had to skip his forties and go straight on into his nineties.

After digging through a drawer where he kept the gifts his mother sent that he could never imagine actually using, he managed to find a pair of vaguely remembered flannel lounge pants. Althea had actually sent those for his last birthday, as he recalled, with a very kind note saying she hoped he'd enjoy them for wearing around the house, which had left him rolling his eyes. Who needed lounge pants? You were either working or sleeping, occasionally engaged in a sporting activity and wearing the appropriate garments for the respective activity. Anything beyond that was a ploy by manufacturers to con gullible consumers into buying more crap they didn't need. He fought back a pang as he remembered Juliet's tolerant smile the day he'd delivered that particular rant. Like she knew something he didn't and would love to share, but knew it would be like banging one's head against a brick wall.

And she'd even considered being with him for more than thirty seconds, _why_, again?

A bit more digging unearthed a threadbare t-shirt from his Academy days that he'd never been able to part with. His time at the Academy been the first time he'd ever felt exceptional at anything, knowing that if there was a God who created people for specific purposes, then surely, he'd been born to be a cop. Regardless of his occasional bouts of insecurity and the too-frequent occurrences where Spencer made him look like a buffoon, he _knew_ he was still a damned good cop.

His head rose. A good enough cop to know that someone was currently in his house. Unlike earlier at Juliet's, however, he had no sense of something being wrong or potentially dangerous—it was just a sense of something different. Something out of the ordinary, at least, for his home. Yet at the same time, all-too-ordinary for a Wednesday evening.

But that was impossible.

Okay, so maybe he needed to rethink that good cop thing, because clearly, he was losing his mind. So desperately missing her and their time spent together, he was resorting to conjuring the _sense_ of her as a weak substitute. Yep. Losing his mind. He needed to start composing his retirement letter. The good citizens of Santa Barbara didn't need an addle-brained cop protecting them.

But first, he'd need to double-check—just to make sure, mind—before he went making any hasty decisions. Even though there was just no way—was there?

Hastily yanking the t-shirt over his head, he headed down the stairs, following the unmistakable scent of meat cooking and a familiar, slightly off-key voice humming along with his favored jazz streaming from the speakers. Heart in his throat, he silently watched her pad around his kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets more than once in search of whatever she needed, but otherwise looking comfortable and so damned right. Finally, however, she sensed his silent presence and slowly turned to face him with wide, red-rimmed eyes.

With a hesitant smile, she lifted one shoulder. "I know where you keep your spare key, too."

He crossed his arms, mostly to keep his heart from making a break for it, bursting straight out of his chest and taking off down the street. "So you're telling me you went by the station, pulled out the lower left drawer of my desk, and reached up to where it was taped to the back of the middle drawer?"

"It beat digging for the one you have buried beneath the rose bushes. Since the weather's so crappy and all." She tilted her head as if regarding him. "Are you hungry? Because God knows, I am."

Releasing the breath he'd been holding since practically the moment he'd sensed her presence, he finally entered the kitchen fully, pausing only to drop a gentle kiss to her forehead before going to the refrigerator. Silently he pulled out the makings for their dessert as well as a bottle of beer for each of them. They worked together, their easy familiarity barely altered by the different surroundings, to finish their meal, not really talking, the silence comfortable, the occasional touches and glances communicating everything that words couldn't.

Even after they'd finished, anticipation a giddy, tingling, heated thing surrounding them, they were nevertheless content to settle on his sofa, her head on his shoulder as Johnny Hartman's melancholy baritone crooned lyrics of love and longing. In the fireplace, a log snapped, a shower of sparks briefly illuminating the otherwise dim room and wrapping it in a woodsy, intimate aroma.

"For all we know, this may only be a dream," Carlton softly sang along with the recording, a tightness grabbing hold deep within his chest at the fear that the lyrics might be all too true. He glanced down at her dark blonde hair spilling across the navy fabric of his t-shirt, her hand linked with his across his abdomen. The weight of her head on his shoulder was reassuring, the steady, warm gusts of breath against his neck comforting in a way he'd never before experienced. He wound the fingers of his free hand through her hair and closed his eyes, knowing that no matter whatever moments came after this one, they'd never be able to top the sheer perfection of this _one_ moment shared with this woman. There was so much he wanted to say to her and knew he couldn't. It was too soon.

He felt her shift slightly, the vibration of her mouth against his throat sending a pleasurable shiver through him.

"Hm?"

"I said," she replied, her words more clear, yet still pitched barely above a whisper, "will you marry me, Carlton?"

_Oh, hell yes._

Impatiently, he stomped on the imp before it could prod his voice free and make him do something if not stupid, because marrying Juliet could _never_ be stupid, then something at least one person in this room would ultimately regret. No matter how much every instinct he possessed screamed that this could be the best possible thing, _ever_, this was something that needed to be discussed. A lot. Good Christ, they hadn't even technically gone on a date, yet.

Hell, maybe they both needed to retire. Since Santa Barbara didn't need two addle-brained cops trying to protect them. They could retire to an island in the South Pacific—maybe deserted, where clothes were optional?

"Let me rephrase that—would you want to marry me. At all?"

He bolted upright and pushed her just far enough back that he could look into her eyes, reading the uncertainty in the blue-gray depths. "Are you crazy? Of course I'd want to." He anxiously searched her gaze, looking for some sign of impending madness.

"Carlton, stop it." She placed a cool palm against his cheek. "I'm not crazy." Shifting, she tucked one leg beneath herself and took both of his hands in hers. "I just know you. You're going to want to dissect and question and maybe get psych evals. You're going to worry that you're too old and too unyielding and not good enough. You're going to stress that because you failed at marriage once before, the likelihood that you'll screw up again is that much higher. You're freaking out that I don't know what I'm doing because I only just got out of a relationship and oh, by the way, in case any question remained yes, I ended it with Shawn."

As she paused to take a breath, Carlton stared at her, stunned. With another squeeze to his hands, she went on. "I've already thought of all those things. So you've been married once before—so what? It takes two people to be married. If your marriage failed, I hardly think it was only because of you. As far as being too old, you're definitely not, at least not for me, because you know, I really like your maturity and steadiness and you're actually pretty dorky and childish with some regularity, which is reassuring because it just means you're human. As far as my relationship with Shawn goes, I think I knew it had been over for a while already but was just too scared to end it, because we _had_ been dancing around each other for so long and had so many missed opportunities. In the end, while the outside world might think it's nuts or fickle, I don't give a damn. Which brings me to us. See, here's the thing—if we're discovered to be in a relationship, we going to be separated, best case scenario, one of us assigned to another unit, but worst case scenario, what happened before, where one of us would be transferred to another department."

_Never again._

But before he could say anything—could say that maybe this was the best reason _not_ to get involved because he couldn't bear the thought of losing her in any way, she spoke again.

"If we're married, though, while they could still potentially put us in different units, they wouldn't be able to send one of us away. I can't risk losing you, Carlton."

Another breath. Carlton remained stunned.

In a softer voice, she continued. "In the last six years, I have seen you at your worst and God knows, I have seen you at your best. I have spent more time with you than any other human and in the last three months, what's between us has become… more." Her gaze searched his, her lower lip trembling slightly as if with the force of all the emotion churning between them. "Don't you agree?"

Finally, he was jolted out of his shock, at least enough to nod.

"You know me better than anyone else, Carlton. I trust you with my life. And…" She took a deep breath and swallowed so hard, he could see the movement of the muscles of her throat. "It maybe took me too long to figure it out, but it would seem I'm crazy, head-over-heels in love with you. The kind of in love where I trust my heart to you implicitly. Where I can't imagine spending another day apart from you. And unless I'm completely off base, you maybe… possibly… feel the same way?"

Once more, he found himself unable to do little more than nod.

Slowly, a smile dawned across her face. A completely gorgeous, radiant, he couldn't imagine ever spending another day without seeing it directed at him, smile. "So you see, Carlton—if I had to wait for you to think all this through, I'd be waiting a pretty damned long time and fact is, I'm impatient." Her voice lowered as she spoke, taking on a husky, unfamiliar quality that he nevertheless recognized in some deep, primal part of his brain.

Abruptly pulling her forward, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. His heart was beating so rapidly and with such force, he was fairly certain he might die at any given moment—but hell, _what_ a way to go.

She threw her arms around his neck with a joyous laugh. "Does this mean you'll marry me?"

"Tonight—tomorrow… whenever you want." He lifted his head and framed her face with his hands. "I love you, Juliet O'Hara. I never meant for it to happen—I never expected it to happen, but it did and now, you're stuck with me."

"I believe I've already mentioned that I happened to want to be stuck with you?"

A smile stretched his face as he drank in each last beautiful, utterly beloved feature and couldn't detect an ounce of guile or artifice. She meant it. She really wanted _him_. "I'm not an easy man, Juliet, but I promise I'm going to do my damnedest to make sure you never regret making this choice."

"Carlton, if it was easy, everyone would do it." Echoing his gesture, her hands rose to frame his face. "I _like_ challenges."

"You're just a little crazy, you know that, O'Hara?" He grinned, feeling like a weight he'd been dragging around for too damned long, had just slid from his shoulders. Or rather, that a certain, blue-eyed, blonde had come along and offered to shoulder half the burden, making it that much easier to bear.

"Good thing you like crazy, then, Detective Lassiter." She returned his smile, with more than a hint of something predatory around the edges as she leaned forward and kissed him. At the same time, her hands reached for the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head.

"God, I _love_ crazy," he murmured as he returned her kiss, exploring the contours of her mouth like it was the first time he'd ever kissed her, tasting the mellow sweetness of apples and cinnamon contrasting with the sharp acidity of the wine they'd shared, while his hands found their way to the buttons of her blouse, smoothly pulling them free.

"Have you ever made love in front of a fireplace?" he murmured into her ear with a sharp nip to the lobe that made her gasp and him tighten in anticipation.

"Can't say that I have." She dragged her nails along his side as she replied, making him suck in a harsh breath and arch toward her.

"Me neither." Slowly, he drew her down off the sofa and onto the rug set before the fire. There, he leisurely pulled each piece of clothing off, exploring every inch of her body as it was revealed, staring in wonder at how the firelight limned her in shades of gold and amber, turning her into a living sculpture. More slowly than he could have ever imagined, he learned her—learned her most sensitive spots and what touches made her breathing quicken and left her sighing. What made her writhe beneath his hands and grab fistfuls of his hair. At one particularly heated point he even paused, grasping her arms and gently pinning them above her head.

"You don't have to tell me what to do, Juliet—" As her mouth dropped open in surprise, he leaned forward and traced the outline of her lips with the tip of his tongue, whispering, "Let me know what you like and how you like it, but let me _learn_ you." Drawing back, he dragged his mouth down her throat to the incredibly sensitive juncture where neck and shoulder met, biting gently and eliciting another gasp. "You might even learn some new things about yourself."

She'd relaxed then, trusting him. With renewed determination he set to learning the texture of her skin and outlining every toned muscle and each soft curve. He discovered that she particularly loved his hands stroking her back, the feel of his mouth pretty much everywhere, and how she tensed and trembled almost violently just before toppling over the edge, her body's languid undulations leaving him more than a little tense and trembling himself.

He discovered that she was an equal opportunity lover—flipping him over onto his back and proceeding to explore him every bit as thoroughly as he had her—at least until he couldn't take it anymore and she allowed him to roll them over once more. Holding himself above her, he asked, "Are you sure?" knowing it for the world's stupidest question, especially _now_, but having to make absolutely certain. It would kill him, but he could stop. For her. He just wanted her to be sure, because once they crossed this bridge, that was all she wrote. He wasn't ever letting her go.

Gazing up into his eyes, she reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together as with the fingers of her other hand, she traced the outline of his mouth.

"This is just the beginning of always, Carlton."

Slowly releasing the breath he'd been holding, he carefully lowered himself as she rose up to meet him, the two of them taking that step together.

His partner, in every possible way.

* * *

><p>The next morning they sat at his desk with their coffee, everything outwardly as usual and if they each looked maybe a bit more bleary-eyed and ragged around the edges, it wasn't enough for anyone to have noticed. Yet. In all honesty, Carlton couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so damned good—despite only forty-five minutes of sleep. Somebody was bound to notice.<p>

"You really want to do this so soon?" he asked for what felt like the ninetieth time that morning as he filled out his half of the paperwork.

Her sigh teased the rim of his ear, almost obliterating the exasperation underscoring it. Not to mention, made him want to take her right back to bed. He wondered if anyone would buy that they'd both contracted miserable cases of food poisoning from bad pork chops.

"Carlton—"

He jerked himself from his happy daydream of sick days to find her giving him a cross-armed stink eye.

"What?"

She leaned in close and kept her voice low. "Quit looking like that—it makes me want to find the nearest unoccupied office."

He stared at her, seeing not the neat, side-swept hair and prim suit, but the flushed skin and tousled hair of two hours earlier. "Sorry."

"Are not."

"Busted." He fought back the smile that threatened to completely kill his rep as a hardass and tried for his habitual early morning frown, feeling like he was probably looking more constipated than anything at the moment.

Using her pen, she gestured at the form he'd been filling out, as if to underscore a point she was trying to make as she quietly said, "For the last time, Carlton, yes, I do want to do this. The sooner, the better."

"Then we need to talk to the Chief ASAP. We're going to do this completely right and aboveboard."

He flushed as her pen lightly traced his name under Personal Data: Groom. "I agree."

"Might as well do it now while things are relatively quiet." Standing, he folded the application into precise thirds and slipped it into his inside breast pocket. No point in leaving the busybodies any potential fodder. It would be public soon enough. For now, he wanted to savor the last few moments of utter privacy he and Juliet were liable to have.

Together, they approached Chief Vick's door and after a perfunctory knock, entered at her distracted, "Come in."

They waited, shoulder-to-shoulder as she finished scribbling some notes in a file. Setting it aside, she folded her hands on her blotter and gazed up at them with a mildly curious expression that rapidly turned to alarm.

"Oh, hell. _No_. No, no, no," she repeated, shaking her head and rubbing at her temples.

"Chief… Karen—" Carlton quickly glanced over his shoulder, making certain they'd closed the door behind themselves. "Relax—it's not what you think."

"Oh?" Their boss's eyebrow rose in truly impressive fashion. "Tell me you're not involved. Please, God, tell me you two are _not_ involved."

"Well… then it's what you think," Juliet admitted, directing an _Oh, __crap_ expression in Carlton's direction.

"Detective, did you not _learn_ after the last time?"

"I swear to God, I _did_," he protested, the guilt rearing up and threatening to overwhelm him once again—at least until he felt Juliet's glancing touch against his hand. Taking a steadying breath, his voice emerged with renewed certainty. "Nothing happened until yesterday, Karen. And what happened is that we decided to get married."

Both of Chief Vick's eyebrows were now intimately acquainted with her hairline. "Whoa, wait a minute—you're saying that one minute, you're partners, then next, you're engaged? Without anything… else happening in between? And what about Spencer?" she demanded of Juliet.

"We haven't been just partners, Chief," she replied quietly but firmly. "We've been friends—best friends," she added with a sidelong glance at Carlton that made him feel as if they were alone in the room. "And then, all of a sudden, we realized it was more. It's really that simple. As far as Shawn—" She flushed a deep red, but continued on, her spine ramrod straight. "It hadn't been working for a long time. We weren't…" she paused, as if searching for the best way to state the obvious. "Compatible."

The expression on Karen's face was nothing short of _D'uh_, but mercifully, she kept silent, her gaze shifting between her two detectives and making Carlton flash back to some particularly heinous meetings with Mother Superior. The ones that had never ended well. As her gaze seemed to linger longer on Juliet, Carlton took a step closer, as if trying to shield her from any potential criticism. The chief wanted to fire him, fine—he could take it—but Juliet was off-limits.

Finally, she spoke. "I take it this is something you're planning on doing relatively soon?"

"Yes, ma'am," Juliet answered for them.

Karen leaned back in her chair, staring past them and into the distance. "It hasn't escaped my notice you've been getting progressively closer the last several months and as far as I can tell, it hasn't affected your performance. If anything, I could make the argument that your work has been better than ever."

As Juliet took a breath, Carlton quickly reached for her hand, communicating _don't_, with a sharp shake of his head. He'd seen their boss think aloud many times over the years—interrupting her would _not_ be a good idea.

Vick snapped her chair forward and leveled a stare at both of them. "So long as that remains the case, I'll allow the two of you to continue to work together at least, until you have kids." Her expression grew even more serious, though not without an undeniable kindness reflected in her eyes. "Ethically and in good conscience, I simply cannot allow it, so one of you will have to transfer to a different unit at that time—something with a lower risk factor, like the White Collar Crimes division. Those are my conditions."

Carlton didn't even have to think. "Deal." Then he looked over at Juliet, who was staring at him, eyebrows raised.

_Think, idiot. This isn't just about you anymore._

"That is, if it's okay with you?" he added, trying to ignore Karen's poorly disguised laugh/cough.

Juliet's stare dissolved into a grin. "Of course it's okay, you fool. It's more than okay." She looked at him in a way that made him wish he could sweep her into a hug, but while they'd been known to hug each other publicly, the kind of spinning around with joy hug he was envisioning was probably not conducive to the professional demeanor he figured Vick was expecting them to maintain in the workplace. So he settled for an answering grin and a wink that he hoped suggested he'd make it up to her later. Judging by the faint blush streaking across her cheekbones, she got it.

"Oh good God, please tell me you're going to at least take a honeymoon so you can get this out of your system enough to be able to work again."

He hadn't thought about it, but now that she mentioned it… "Chief—"

Vick lifted a hand. "Just let me know the wedding date and I'll put in for two weeks of leave for both of you. God help me, I must be out of my mind," she muttered.

"Um, Chief, about that, actually—" Juliet turned to him, resting her hand on his sleeve. "I need to talk to the chief for a minute—privately, if that's okay?"

"Of course." For another long, suspended moment, their gazes met, everything around them falling away. Would it ever change, he wondered. The feeling that as long as she was there, by his side, they were cocooned in their own private world and nothing could touch them.

He sure as hell hoped not.

With a nod of thanks to the chief, he left her office and promptly came face-to-face with a haggard Shawn Spencer. He started to nod and move past the other man, but something in his penetrating stare made Carlton hold his ground.

"You'll take care of her?" His voice was rusty, with a pained quality that Carlton had only ever heard once before from the other man—when he had made the choice to forsake Abigail for Juliet. When he'd had to confess he just didn't always have all the answers.

"I will," he answered simply, unwilling to give much more than that. But as Shawn nodded and went to step past, Carlton found himself putting a hand up to stop him.

"Listen, Spencer." He glanced back into the chief's office, noting that Juliet was still engrossed in talking to Vick before returning his attention to Shawn who was also gazing through the window, his normally open expression shuttered and remote. "If anything should ever happen to me—"

He was probably crazy, but honestly, there was no one else he would even consider worthy of this request.

Anger briefly flared in Spencer's eyes as he turned to face him—a response that Carlton could actually respect, but he hoped Spencer could put the emotion aside long enough to consider his silent question. For a few tense moments the two men faced off, until Spencer nodded shortly.

"Nothing's gonna happen to you, Lassie—you're the Iron Man, right? Tough as nails and old shoe leather," he replied with a touch of his usual insouciance before his hand grasped Carlton's in a quick, unexpected grip. "I wouldn't screw up a second time, man," he murmured. "You have my word."

"Good." Carlton nodded and watched the other man round the corner and disappear from sight. "Good," he said more quietly. With a lighter step, he returned to his desk to finish filling out his marriage license.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>The song I reference is a gorgeous jazz ballad, "For All We Know," performed by Johnny Hartman who has one of the most purely elegant, seductive voices ever. If anyone's interested, it can be found on YouTube. (Since I can't seem to load the direct link.)


	8. Chapter 8: INGREDIENTS

**Ingredients  
><strong>

Y'all know the drill: don't own _**psych**_, don't pretend to, like playing in the sandbox, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', no infringement intended, blah, blah, oh yeah, I thought this was going to be the last chapter, but guess what, children…

* * *

><p><em>I'm <em>fine_._

_You don't have to be fine._

_I'm fine, I'm totally fine…_

_You don't…_

_I'm **fine**._

_Juliet— You don't have to be fine._

_You don't have to be fine… Shh… It's okay…_

Juliet's hand trembled slightly as she applied a final coat of lipstick. What a thing to be remembering, today, of all days. But at the same time, not so strange, really. Because if there was any one defining moment in their relationship, that would be it.

He'd come for her.

He'd assured her he had her.

He'd stopped time itself to save her.

And when she no longer needed to remain stoic, but had so desperately wanted to—wanted to prove she was okay when she so clearly wasn't—he'd held her. Had given her permission to fall apart and when she did, told her it was okay. Her taciturn, often-angry, often said the wrong thing, partner—this man who was a great cop and so often such a bad people person, had been, in that moment, perfect.

She'd never told anyone about that morning and she knew he'd never told anyone either. They'd never even discussed it between themselves—it was simply there, a layer to their relationship that imbued it with a tensile strength. Nothing and no one could ever take that moment, and what it had given them, away.

Like nothing would ever take this moment, today, away from them.

"Nervous?"

Her gaze met Karen Vick's in the mirror. "Actually, no." As Karen's gaze dropped to Juliet's still trembling hand, she laughed softly. "Okay, maybe a little."

"I threw up three times on my wedding day." The edges of Karen's mouth quirked in a wry grin. "My mother was convinced I was pregnant. She refused to understand that I was just overwhelmed by the enormity of the three hundred guest dog-and-pony show waiting for me. She'd convinced me I'd regret it forever if I didn't have a, in her words, 'proper wedding.'"

"And?" Juliet asked.

"What I regret is the dog-and-pony show. You have no idea how much I envy you right now." Her shoulders rose and fell with a heartfelt sigh. "Doing it this way. I'm guessing you'll remember a lot more about your day than throwing up three times."

"I have thrown up once," Juliet confessed, blotting her lips with a tissue and turning to face her boss. "More because I'm afraid he's going to go all…"

"Carlton?" Karen's dry response filled in the blank after Juliet's voice drifted off.

"Exactly." Juliet nodded. "That he's going to revert to being all logical and practical and try to convince me of all the reasons this is a terrible idea and that I don't really know what I'm doing." Even as recently as the night before, he'd been questioning, well… her sanity, as he'd dropped her off at her house, because as unconventional as everything about their relationship and wedding was going to be, he wanted to stick to _one_ piece of tradition and not see her until the wedding itself. But instead of just walking her to the door and wishing her the lingering good night she'd hoped for, instead he'd started spouting off about was she really _sure_ and maybe they needed to wait because with time she'd realize this was a colossal mistake for her and then he'd tried to break her heart by muttering something about how when she _did_ realize what a colossal mistake it was, he wasn't sure he'd be able to take it, so better, maybe, that she rethink all her options now—

She'd finally shut him up by kissing him and threatening to take him inside, tradition be damned, and prove to him, _again_, how many ways this was a good idea. They'd managed to honor his wish to stick to tradition, but only just. Moments before midnight he'd taken himself off, but not without a threat from her of bodily harm if he even _dared_ entertain any more thoughts that she might reconsider.

"God, but he can piss me off."

Well, yeah, he could, but not about this. Truth was, he didn't piss her off so much as all the people who'd ever hurt him enough to make him question his worthiness pissed her off. A month or two at the shooting range might take care of the rage, but it would have to wait. Because someone else came first.

A sharp rap sounded at the door followed by a gruff, "O'Hara—you waiting for a Mideast peace accord or something?"

Juliet exchanged amused glances with Karen and shrugged. "The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess."

"You expected anything different?" Karen leaned back against the bathroom vanity and crossed her arms. "Actually, I'll be honest—when you dropped your bombshell last week, I thought you were crazy. Both of you, but mostly you—going from Shawn to Carlton? Talk about your emotional whiplash." She tilted her head, her thoughtful gaze studying Juliet. "But the more I thought about it—the more I took a good look at the two of you together—the more sense it made. Carlton's always going to be Carlton—but he's a better version of himself with you. Both as a cop and as a man. And you're not just happier than I've ever seen you but stronger, too. You two, you just... fit."

Juliet was touched. Their boss wasn't one given to too many personal proclamations, in her own way as reserved as Carlton, so to have, in essence, her blessing, meant more than she could ever express.

"Thanks, Chief—"

"Karen," she corrected. "Today I'm your matron of honor, not your boss." Reaching out, she tucked a strand of hair back into Juliet's loose chignon.

A surge of gratitude overwhelmed Juliet, making her sink down onto the vanity chair. "And thank you, again, for that, too. For..." she waved a hand, "everything—" She and Carlton had been fully prepared to pull a number and take their turn with all the other couples at City Hall, but the Chief had declared if her two best detectives were going to run off and get married, they should at least do it with some semblance of style—and privacy—hence, their current surroundings of the spacious private bathroom of the chambers of the Santa Barbara Superior Court judge who would be performing their ceremony.

"Judge Laurents owes me more than a few favors." Karen's grin held more than a tinge of slyness. "Can't think of a better occasion for which to pull one of those chits."

Another sharp rap sounded. "O'Hara?" While still gruff, the voice sounded more tentative, with definite nervousness underscoring her name.

Karen crossed to the door and cracked it open. "She hasn't run away, Detective."

"Ah, well, of course not. I didn't think—" Carlton's muffled cough carried through the crack in the door.

"Yeah, you did and you're an idiot." Karen glanced back over her shoulder with an exasperated _Are __you __sure __about __this?_ eye roll followed by a good-natured grin that made it clear she already knew the answer. Juliet nodded anyway, muffling a laugh behind her fist.

"She's not going anywhere, Carlton. She's just putting the finishing touches on. We'll be out momentarily."

"Okay." Even through it was quiet, the relief in Carlton's sigh carried clearly through the small opening and straight to Juliet's chest, making her heart beat just a little faster. She was really going to marry this complicated, moody, _wonderful_ man. And she needed to do it soon, before he gave himself an ulcer.

Karen firmly shut the door on Carlton and crossed back to Juliet. "We should really get out there."

Juliet nodded and stood. Hand to her stomach, she breathed deep against the butterflies performing a hardcore Scottish reel through her bloodstream as she took a final accounting in the full-length mirror mounted to the door.

"Relax," Karen said, handing her the delicate bouquet of dark pink and white stargazer lilies and lotus flowers that had been delivered to her house first thing that morning with a simple _I __can't __wait_, scrawled on the card in a familiar block script. "You look beautiful."

Juliet smoothed the skirt of the shell pink dress she'd chosen on an quick shopping trip over the weekend. The simple dress had drawn her immediately with the sensuous feel of the heavy silk jersey against her skin as well as the vaguely 40s silhouette that she'd instinctively known would appeal to Carlton as well. In keeping with the style of the dress, she wore a pair of nude and pink platform pumps, a single strand of pearls and matching stud earrings, but had otherwise kept the fuss to a minimum, her makeup simple and her hair swept back in a softer version of her working day chignon. For one thing, she was too nervous to try anything more elaborate, but more importantly, she didn't want to look like anyone other than herself today. Still—

"Not exactly bridal," she observed, smoothing the skirt yet again.

Karen, in an equally simple dark violet long-sleeved dress, appeared beside her in the mirror's reflection. "To this day, my husband couldn't tell you what I was wearing that day. Nor does he care. As far as he's concerned, I could have just as easily been wearing my favorite Levi's as my grandmother's lace gown. He told me later, all he could see was me. Just… me." Her hand gently squeezed Juliet's shoulder. "Trust me—that's all Carlton wants right now. Just you."

"It's mutual," Juliet murmured, with a final look in the mirror. With the flush of her skin, the soft expression in her eyes, and the expectant smile, maybe she did have a sort of bridal glow going after all.

"O'Hara?" Now he was just sounding plaintive.

Juliet shook her head as behind her, Karen laughed. Pulling open the door, she came face-to-face with him, watching as the worried, nervous lines of his face faded and a smile slowly took over.

"Wow," he said simply.

"Wow yourself," she replied softly, taking in the sharp dark charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and dark blue-gray tie with the subtle pattern. An instant later she immediately forgot what he was wearing as her gaze fixed itself on his face and those blue, blue eyes that she'd never get tired of looking into.

"You can still make a run for it," he said quietly, taking her hand.

"Say anything like that again and I swear, I _will_ shoot you." She squeezed his hand, just hard enough to let him know she meant it. Briefly resting her head on his shoulder she murmured, "Thank you for the flowers."

His thumb traced a light, glancing caress across the back of her hand. "I wanted you to have _something._"

She lifted her head and cupped his cheek in her hand. "I do."

Heat briefly flared in his eyes as he turned his head and ghosted a kiss against the sensitive skin of her palm, raising goosebumps and prompting her to take a subtle look down because showing up at her wedding ceremony in an obvious state of arousal simply would _not_ do.

The heat in his eyes was banked somewhat as humor came to the fore and he grinned. "You're okay," he whispered as his glance followed the path hers had taken.

"Not if you keep doing that," she whispered back fiercely. "Now behave."

"Yes, dear," he intoned in his blessedly familiar sarcastic drawl, with accompanying raised-eyebrow scowl, making Juliet laugh. The man was absolutely perfect. There was no way she could be thinking about seduction so long as he was pulling aneurysm face and well did he know it.

"You ready?" She looked up, expecting to see an answering smile, but was instead met with a thoughtful gaze. "Carlton?"

"In a minute." He gave the hand he held a reassuring squeeze. "Someone just wants to talk to you first."

"Who?"

Carlton stepped aside to reveal Buzz, whom Carlton had asked to act as best man so long as he didn't go blabbing about it, for God's sake, standing ramrod straight and proud in his dress blues alongside the judge in his robes and one very unexpected guest.

"Henry?"

With a nod at the judge and Buzz, Henry stepped toward them, hands in the pockets of his pale gray suit.

"You look beautiful, Juliet."

A pleased flush suffused her cheeks with heat at his gentle statement. As gruff and impatient as he could be, praise from him was a rare thing to be treasured. Like someone else she knew. "Thank you."

"I'll just leave you two," Carlton inserted neutrally, although when she glanced up, Juliet could see those familiar, faint lines of concern beginning to make an indentation between his brows. He was afraid. Still.

"No, stay." Surprisingly, the directive came from Henry. "You guys are going to be married—I'm sure you'll both want to have a say in this."

"Thank you," she replied gratefully, leaning back against Carlton . She sighed in relief as one of his hands come to rest on her hip in a comforting, ever-so-slightly possessive gesture. "What is it, Henry?"

He shifted on his feet, looking down at the carpet as if beige Berber was just the most interesting thing ever, then finally squared his shoulders, as if he'd made a decision. "I know you've only just started working on fixing things with your dad and I probably have no business asking, but… given that none of your family is here, would you… that is, what I'm trying to say is, um… well…"

Juliet glanced up at Carlton, exchanging an entire conversation in the split second when their gazes met. Nothing they hadn't done a thousand times before, in the field, as partners, even as friends, but now—

_Wow._

Dizzying. Breathtaking. And in Carlton's wide-eyed gaze and slow smile, she could read the same sense of wonderment. He nodded slightly.

Turning to Henry she said simply, "We'd be honored."

A smile slowly creased the older man's face. "The honor's mine, Juliet. Thank you." He extended a hand to Carlton who took it in his with one of his rare, genuine smiles. "And thank you."

As the two men shook hands, Juliet asked, "Henry, what about when Shawn finds out?" Their relationship wasn't a whole lot further along, really, than hers with Frank, and the last thing she wanted to do was put fresh cracks in a newly reinforced foundation.

Both of Henry's hands were back in his pockets as he tilted his head and regarded her, a hint of sadness clinging to him. "He knows."

Juliet mulled over his statement as they all took their places and the judge intoned, "Dearly beloved," beginning the ceremony—simple and elegant with the patina of time—that would bind her to Carlton for the rest of their lives.

In the end, it was good that it had happened—her and Shawn—even if it was never meant to last. Because without it, she had to wonder how much longer it would have taken her to see—really _see__—_Carlton. She'd always noted and had, over time, grown to appreciate his fundamental differences from Shawn, but would they have been so clearly etched had her respective relationships with each man not developed in the way they had? After all, Nana _had_ always insisted things happened for a reason and for the first time, Juliet really believed.

Shawn had happened in order for her to see Carlton and for that, she'd always be thankful.

And she could only send up additional thanks to the Universe or the Fates or Ralph, the Head of Cabbage or who_ever_, that Carlton had seen her as well. And had wanted her. Because she could no more imagine her life without Carlton Lassiter than she could imagine not breathing.

"Who gives this woman?"

After exchanging another glance with Carlton, Juliet turned to Henry and placed her hand in his. He, in turn, placed her hand in Carlton's, with a kiss to her cheek before taking a step back, leaving them together.

_"Do you Carlton…"_

_"I do."_

_"Do you Juliet…"_

_"I do."_

_"I, Carlton, take you, Juliet to be my wife…"_

_"I, Juliet, take you, Carlton to be my husband…"_

Karen was right, Juliet thought through the haze enveloping her. There's no way she would've remembered a damned thing about some fancy wedding with too many people she neither knew nor cared about and an uncomfortable dress that probably itched and some church or country club that didn't mean a damned thing. _This_, though—_this_ she would remember for the rest of her life. She'd remember every word, every breath, the slight trembling of Carlton's hand as he'd slid the wedding band on her finger and the answering tremor in hers as she'd returned the gesture. She'd remember the dazed, _Holy __crap __is __this __really __happening?_ expression darkening his eyes to a deep slate blue and know that an answering expression of _You __better __believe __this __is __happening_, had to be written all over her.

But most of all, she'd remember that moment—when the judge _finally_ said, "By the power vested in me by the State of California, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now—"

Didn't hear a damned thing after that, with the way Carlton was kissing her, like it had been weeks—_years—_instead of just hours, since they'd last kissed. Kissed her in a way that zinged along every nerve ending and left her feeling weak-kneed and lightheaded and had her toes curling inside her pumps as she blindly groped for purchase, finally grabbing onto his suit lapels as she arched into his embrace, giving as good as she got.

Finally, a discreet cough had her pulling back—enough to see the matching grins on Karen's, Henry's, Buzz's, and even the judge's faces. She buried her suddenly burning face in Carlton's jacket, punching him lightly as she felt the laughter vibrating through layers of cotton and worsted wool.

"Please, God, go on your honeymoon," Karen drawled, but when Juliet finally lifted her face from Carlton's jacket, she saw their boss looked undeniably pleased.

"After we take you to lunch," Henry broke in, then added with a sly grin, "provided you can last that long."

Carlton tried to adopt one of his patented disgusted smirks, but it kept dissolving into the same giddy smile Juliet could feel pasted on her own face as she gazed up at her… husband.

"That'd be lovely," she said, still more than a little breathless. Lunch would be a good idea. Protein. Lots of carbs. For energy. Lots and lots of energy.

"As long as it's a short lunch," Carlton declared, his gaze never leaving Juliet. And oh, _God_, the look in those brilliantly blue, deep-set eyes.

The look that was just for her—that promised not just tonight, but... forever.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> I intended for there to be another scene for this chapter, but since Real Life interfered and it took me longer than expected to get this done, I figured I'd split it up and have at least one more chapter so that I could get this chapter up, as I've been promising _someone_ *coughLoafercough*. :) With any luck, the next one will go up this weekend.


	9. Chapter 9: DESSERTS & CAKES

**Desserts & Cakes**

Don't own _**psych**_, more's the pity, don't even pretend to, like playing in the sandbox, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', no infringement intended, yadda, yadda, good quality dark chocolate.

It's their honeymoon, folks—let's assume there's going to be some sort of **M** action going on. Also, let's count on there being massive, massive amounts of shmoop. **Epic ****shmoop**. The shmoop elves ran amuck yet hopefully contained themselves within the context of character.

And so…

* * *

><p>"Wait right there."<p>

"What?" Juliet paused with her hand on the door handle, happy to be home, anxious as hell to get inside, already, and be alone with her husband. And the dolt wanted her to wait? "Why?" A clear note of whining permeated the single syllable—another reason to be annoyed with him… later. But now she wanted to get inside.

"Juliet, just humor me, okay? Please?"

The expression in his blue eyes was equal parts anxious and pleading, making her "Fine," come out far more tempered than it might have under any other circumstance. She waited as he got out, rounded the front of the car, and opened her door, holding his hand out in a courtly, old-fashioned gesture. Placing her hand in his, she let him assist her to a standing position, her breath catching as he paused to kiss the back before tucking it into the crook of his elbow.

Looking up into his face, she felt her heart skip a beat. They'd really done it. In the blink of an eye they'd gone from being partners and best friends to, well… partners and best friends.

"We did it," she said softly.

"We did," he replied with a smile, brushing the knuckles of his free hand along her cheek.

Given that she'd half-expected him to come back with something along the lines of "Regrets?" or "You could still apply for an annulment"—the sort of thing for which she'd feel compelled to smack him stupid, his simple response came as a pleasant surprise. As did the steady confidence that had settled over him ever since the ceremony's conclusion. It was an attitude she was used to seeing from him in cop mode but not so much in other contexts when his insecurities and the abrasiveness he wore like a shield tended to take control.

Actually, she thought, as he led them to his front door, she took that back. The confidence he wore as a cop was cockier… _louder_, somehow, like crashing dissonant chords, designed to be aggressive and intimidating whereas what was coming from him now was calmer—like the quiet of a walk on the beach at sunset. It was soothing and sure and above all, safe.

After unlocking the door he pushed it open, then when she would have barreled through, anxious to close the rest of the world out and get, you know, _naked_ with her husband, he shocked her by holding her back and an instant later, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her over the threshold. He grinned down at her as he kicked the door shut and set her on her feet.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Lassiter," he murmured as he took her face in his hands.

She shivered at the low, possessive rumble of his voice and the equally possessive intent turning his eyes a deep, brilliant blue. "Good to be home, Mr. Lassiter," she managed just before his head lowered and his mouth met hers in a long, lingering kiss, putting the electric zings of their ceremony kiss to absolute shame. Seriously, if she'd known the man could kiss like _this_, she might've thrown herself at him a whole lot sooner.

God, but she loved the way he kissed, leisurely and slow, as if he was discovering her all over again with each kiss—like they had all the time in the world. Slowly, he explored her mouth, his tongue teasing her lips and gaining entry, drawing hers out to play. One hand firmly on her back, the other holding her head in place, he trailed small, teasing caresses along her jawline to her ear, ramping her up into a heightened state of total sensation. The world could've been falling to pieces around her and she'd never notice.

His breath was warm against the sensitive skin of her ear as he whispered, "Keep your eyes closed." Instinct drove her to want to open them immediately, but again, that air calm of possession imbuing his voice made her fight the impulse. Cool air buffeted her front as she felt him step away, only to be replaced at her back as he guided her towards… the kitchen? She thought.

"Keep them closed, O'Hara."

She grinned at the familiar gruff tone, underscored with a definite hint of nerves. Whatever it was, it meant something to him. "They're closed, Carlton," she reassured him, her hand gripping his tightly as they moved forward.

"Okay, just stay there a minute." She felt her hands placed along the edge of… a granite counter. So definitely the kitchen, the deduction reinforced by the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing and the faint clink of something metallic being set on the granite. A moment later, the warmth of his body radiated against her back as his hands took hers again. Like at the ceremony, a slight tremor ran through them, making her tighten her hold.

"Can I open now?"

His voice was husky as he replied, "Yeah."

Blinking to clear her vision, the first thing Juliet noticed was the silver ice bucket holding a bottle of champagne. Resting alongside was a pair of delicate crystal flutes, a single china plate, a silver fork and finally, in the place of honor in the center of the island, a simple, elegant chocolate cake. Tears sprung to her eyes as she recognized the sliced almond garnish decorating the cake's sides.

"The Reine de Saba," she said in a hushed voice as she leaned back against Carlton's chest. "You made us Julia's Queen of Sheba cake."

"It's Wednesday," he replied simply. "And I know we didn't cook together today, but—I wanted you to have _something_," he added, invoking the same words he'd used with respect to her bouquet. She could feel his shrug against her back. "Giving you some flowers and a wedding cake are the least I could do." His sigh rose and fell against her back and made her lean her head against his shoulder.

"What is it?"

He voice was quiet. "I wish I could say it's going to be easy, being married to me, Juliet, but I can't lie to you. We both know I'm a pain in the ass on a good day. Even down to this wedding—it's so not wedding-y and I knew it, but I was so damned anxious to marry you before—"

She spun in his arms and reached up to press her lips to his, stopping his protest. Holding him protectively close, her voice emerged in a fierce whisper against his mouth. "Don't you _dare_ say anything about me changing my mind ever again, Carlton Lassiter. It's just not going to happen, you got that?"

To her surprise, he laughed as he leaned back and met her gaze. "Actually, what I was going to say was before I totally chickened out."

"It's not that different," she grumbled. Despite the presence of that lovely quiet confidence since the ceremony, obviously still a lot of work to be done for him to realize she was exactly where she wanted to be and more importantly, with _whom_. Good thing they had the rest of their lives. She ran her hand along his cheek, the feel of his emerging five o'clock shadow rasping along the sensitive skin of her palm. Heat pooled low in her stomach at the thought of how that rough-edged skin would feel against other, equally sensitive parts of her body.

"What do you say we cut our cake?"

"Can't think of anything I'd rather do more." As she turned to face the cake, he reached past her for a silver knife that he placed in her hand. A lump rose in her throat as she noted the date engraved on the handle along with an elegant, intertwined _C_ and _J_.

"You know, Carlton, you really have to quit berating yourself for how non-wedding-like this wedding has been." She swallowed and blinked against the tears that sparked hot against the backs of her eyes. "I can't imagine anything more perfect." She tilted her head back once more to find him looking down at her, a familiar, faint smile on his face. She knew that smile—the one where he was beginning to believe. Where he _so_ wanted to believe.

"You know, this tradition of cutting the cake together—it symbolizes the first joint task the married couple undertakes." As she spoke, she took his hand and placed it over hers on the knife.

"Don't you think it feels a little after the fact for us?" he observed. "Considering how much we've done together already."

"Yes and no. I suppose you could make the argument that we've been closer than most married couples—been through more already and survived. But now..." She leaned into him once more, closing her eyes as she breathed deep of his distinctive combination of soap, aftershave, and the barest hint of gunpowder that would make her able to single Carlton out in a crowded room blindfolded. "It's a whole new world for us, Carlton."

Together, they carefully cut into the flawless chocolate surface of the cake, once, then twice. Freeing the slice, they managed to get it onto the china plate. Using the fork, she cut a small piece and offered it to Carlton who leaned forward, then paused.

"You're not going to smash cake in my face, are you?" he asked with typical Carlton skepticism.

"Ew, no." She wrinkled her nose. "First off, tacky and second, what a waste of what I'm sure is exceptional cake."

With a relieved grin, he leaned forward and accepted the bite, then took the fork to offer her her own taste.

"Mmmm…" she hummed as dark, creamy chocolate flavored with a hint of almond exploded along her taste buds. "Seriously, anyone who would waste this cake by smashing it into someone else's face needs to be taken out and shot."

"While normally, I'm a big fan of the shooting arts, I've got a far more enjoyable pursuit in mind."

"Oh?" With a smile, she took the plate and fork and set them aside. Grasping his tie, she began pulling the knot loose as he drew her close. Rather than kiss her immediately, as she'd expected, however, he leaned over her protectively, his cheek resting on her head.

"I love you, Juliet."

A wave of gentleness overwhelmed her as she held him close. He'd always take care of her, she knew—die for her if necessary—but what he was saying, without putting it into words, was that he trusted her to take care of him in turn. This proud, stubborn, prickly man had done what was possibly one of the hardest things for him, and opened himself to her.

"About those enjoyable pursuits…" she whispered, stroking his neck.

Without a word, he led her up the stairs to his—_their__—_bedroom, now, where more surprises awaited, from the neatly turned down bed, to the arrangement of lilies and lotuses in a vase on the dresser, the music playing softly in the background, and the candles he quickly lit before returning to her. All traces of uncertainty gone, he knelt to remove her shoes, one at a time, before rising and slowly sliding the zipper down on her dress, his fingers tracing each vertebra before pushing it down to pool on the polished wood floor. Just as slowly, he pulled the pins from her hair, carefully running his hands through the strands, making certain he hadn't missed any. Only then did he give himself over to her.

Given free rein, Juliet found herself going as slowly as he had, simply _savoring_ each action the way she'd savored the cake. She pushed his jacket off his broad shoulders, letting it drop to the floor alongside her dress before tackling his shirt, sliding each button free and kissing each bit of warm skin exposed. Hands spread across his stomach, she rose on tiptoes to kiss the line of his collarbones, her lips teasing the small mole normally hidden behind the buttoned-up, starched shirtfronts. Everything about Carlton tended to be hidden behind the suits and the crankiness, but here, alone, he was completely open, half-lidded eyes watching her every move, the heat in the blue depths unmistakable and intoxicating. All this was for her.

Echoing what he'd done, she dropped to her knees, untying his polished black dress shoes and slipping them off along with his socks before rising slightly to tackle his belt and the button fastening his dress slacks. It was then he stopped her, pulling her up and lowering her to the bed in one smooth motion.

"_That_ could be dangerous," he murmured against her neck.

"That was kind of the idea," she replied, scratching her nails down his back and arching against the sudden tenseness of his body.

"Why don't we save that for later, though?"

"You have something else in mind?" she teased, gasping as he reached beneath her and deftly unfastened her bra. Pulling it free, he tossed it aside then sat back and simply gazed down at her nearly nude form the expression on his face caught somewhere between wonderment and awe and making her feel just this side of goddess. Behind the wonder and awe, however, there lurked a distinctly predatory edge that made her shiver and brought to mind their first night together. This was a man who knew exactly what he wanted to do and how he wanted to do it—all to her benefit. She shivered again, recalling how he'd stopped her from directing his movements, asserting she didn't have to tell him what to do. He'd all but said he'd figure her out, that he _wanted_ to figure her out, and in a manner they'd both relish. Had he _ever_ been right.

"God, you're gorgeous." Gently, he ran his hand up her thigh, along the curve of her waist, to brush the side of her breast, then followed the same trail down, over and over again, leaving her sighing and fighting to keep still.

"Carlton—"

Pausing just long enough for them to push the remainder of their clothes off, he lowered himself over her, capturing her hands in his and holding them tightly. They moved together slowly, silently—communicating through shared gazes and touch. So much still to learn about each other—what caress made him groan and tighten his hold, what movement made him hiss and arch harder against her, how often could they bring each other to the brink before deciding together, _yes__… __oh, __God, __yes, __please__… __now__…_

_Love you, Juliet…_

_Love you, too… so much. So much, Carlton._

Afterward, they lay together, his head resting on her chest. Aside from the fact that he was a wonderful lover, Juliet loved how they could just be… quiet together. Communication between them didn't have to be about words or grand gestures—it was just as easy for them to simply… _be_. She never realized what kind of freedom that sort of existence could bring with it—not to mention, peace. How ironic. The last thing the rest of the world would presume about Carlton Lassiter was that he could be peaceful, yet together, that's exactly what they were. More secrets about him that only she'd ever be privy to.

Idly, she played her fingers through his hair, admiring the way the candlelight picked out the silver within the dark strands and how pale her skin appeared by contrast.

"I love when you smile." Deep and lazy, his voice vibrated along her skin.

"How can you tell I'm smiling?"

"Because if you're not, then I didn't do my job well and we'll have to start over until I get it right."

She chuckled, her fingertips tracing the web of faint scratches along the back of his shoulder. "Perhaps I should stop smiling then."

"Then again, if you're smiling, it might serve as encouragement, too."

"So you're saying I'm screwed either way?"

His head rose, a mischievous glint flickering in the blue depths as he grinned. "Apt choice of words, yes."

He rolled away from her, leaving her scrambling beneath the covers from the sudden chill as he rose, saying, "I'll be right back," accompanied with a lingering kiss. She unabashedly admired his body as he walked across the room—clearly sensing her gaze, her turned and blushed, making her laugh outright as he snatched up his robe and tied it closed with brisk movements.

"Dammit, woman, I'm on a mission—do _not_ distract me."

"Not my fault I find you insanely sexy," she called after his retreating form. Moments later he reappeared bearing the abandoned crystal flutes and now-open champagne.

"We got a little derailed," he said with a sheepish grin as he filled a flute and passed it to her. As soon as he shed his robe and joined her beneath the covers, she scooted close, resting her head against his shoulder.

"We're entitled," she replied, tapping her glass to his, listening to the melodic chime ring through the dark intimacy of their room. "To us."

"To us," he echoed, his steady gaze holding hers as they drank, the intensity of the emotion between them making her heart beat faster and her breath catch—at least until the bubbles fizzed up her nose and made her erupt in a thoroughly mood-killing bout of giggles.

"Dammit, dammit—sorry—" She rubbed at the end of her nose. "So much for romance," she said with a sigh and a glare at the crystal flute followed by a second glare at her new husband as he broke out laughing. "It's not funny!"

"It is." Still chuckling, he shook his head as he took the flute from her and set it with his on the nightstand. "God, Juliet, don't you get it? With you, even the dumbest things are romantic. I'll probably be busting some perp and be damn near tempted to break out into song and dance because I get to do it with you."

"For a while, at least," she replied, the chief's warning clear in her mind.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." He drew her head down to his shoulder, stroking her hair. "Or whenever you're ready."

"We," she corrected. "We both make that decision."

Even though they'd already had this discussion, she could nevertheless feel the tension beginning to seize him—the desire to not push, the belief that since it was a choice that most directly impacted her, from her career to her body, then it should be left solely up to her. Another one of those things she'd have to work on with him—from here on in, it was all about them. Not that he didn't have a point about her being most directly affected, but still, expanding their family was about both of them. Frankly, she was hoping he'd consider a move to White Collar as well, when the time came, if only because the thought of anything ever happening to him terrified her more than it ever had before. And it had terrified her plenty, before, recalling the stomach-churning horror of seeing him on his knees, a gun to his head.

She sighed, knowing that it would be a tough sell—it was his life, putting away bad guys—a mission that would become even that much more personal once they had a family, but she'd have to convince him that maybe once they had kids, it would be time to let someone _else_ carry that banner. Again, a bridge to cross when the time came.

"I need to show you something."

Curious, she glanced up at his surprisingly serious expression, then down, as she felt him gently slide her ring off, followed by his. And even though it had only been a matter of hours that she'd been wearing it, her finger already felt its absence—too light and sensitive, as if what should be protecting it had gone missing.

"Carlton?"

"Just for a second—" Leaning over, he turned on the gooseneck lamp on the nightstand and adjusted it so a golden pool of light illuminated their rings resting in his palm—hers a narrow, etched antique rose-gold band, his, a subtle brushed white gold. Picking hers up, he held it up to the light. "Look," he directed her, tilting the band far enough for her to see the inscription that hadn't been there when they chose the ring.

_The __beginning __of __always,_along with not that day's date, but from the week before. The day everything changed.

_"This is just the beginning of always, Carlton."_

Her own words spoken as both assurance and promise. The words that would always rest against her skin.

"I, um… had it put in mine, too." She glanced from her ring to his, picking it up and holding so the light shone on the underside, illuminating the same words. "I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" Incredulous, she gaped at him. "Why on earth would I mind such a beautiful, amazing… dammit, Carlton… you have got to stop—_mmmph_—"

Long moments later he lifted his head, another one of those lazy, satisfied smiles revealing the small dimples at the corners of his mouth that didn't often make an appearance. "This wasn't about me being insecure—for once." Carefully, he slid her ring back into place, kissing the back of her hand. "It simply occurred to me afterward that you might have wanted to put something else in there."

"I couldn't have chosen anything more perfect." She replaced his ring, rubbing her thumb across the subtly textured metal. Gazing up into his face, she traced her fingertips over the contours of his brows and the high, broad line of his cheekbones; the thick, short fan of his lashes as he briefly closed his eyes and the odd, distinctive hook of his nose before trailing her fingers along his jaw to his lips. Just before she touched her mouth to his, she whispered, "I couldn't have chosen anyone more perfect."

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Even though he knew she'd be okay with it, Carlton fretted because fretting was something he had a lifetime's worth of experience with and it was his fallback after grouchy and snappish. And since he couldn't be either of those things with Juliet, fretting took center stage.<p>

"Carlton, for heaven's sake, it's wonderful. Your gift for surprises really is only eclipsed by your gift for desserts and detective work."

He stood taller, tugging at the collar of his shirt in self-conscious pride. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She grinned and reached up to straighten the collar and smooth his shirt in a way that made his heart beat faster, especially at the sight of the ring on the hand resting on his chest. She tilted her head toward the entrance of the venerable old marble and limestone building. "Shall we?"

Hand in hand, they entered the National Museum of American History, taking their time strolling through the various galleries, confessing their favorite eras as they strolled through the transportation exhibit, studying the various pieces of war memorabilia, and standing in reverent silence before the fragile Stars and Stripes that had flown over Fort McHenry.

All that was a prelude, though, for their final destination—his love of American history aside, the true reason he'd surprised Juliet with this honeymoon trip to Washington, D.C.

"Kind of an unlikely Cupid, isn't she?" Juliet asked, leaning back against him, her hands resting over his on her stomach as they gazed into exhibit housing Julia Child's kitchen.

He glanced from the portrait of the woman herself back to the spacious kitchen, the table set as if waiting for its owner to return at any given moment. "Not so much a Cupid as a facilitator, I think," he mused. "I don't think she would have ever considered herself a counselor of any kind," he said, recalling what he'd read of her in her biography, "but I think she would've been pleased at the impact that cooking can have on people. On the joy it can bring."

"She was equal parts pragmatist and romantic, I think."

Carlton considered Juliet's observation. "I agree. She studied food and how it could be combined so that the results were always predictable, but her passion drove everything."

"And her passion compelled Julie Powell to take on her project—"

"And you, Juliet—did you get your illumination?" Carlton asked, recalling their initial conversation that had led them down this impossibly unlikely road. He looked down into his wife's smiling face. His wife. Damn.

"I got that and so much more." Juliet's voice was gentle as her hands tightened on his. "You know, we do still have a lot of recipes to go through."

"I know." He pulled them back out of the way so other tourists could take their turn, snapping pictures. "Let's take our time with them, okay?" he said quietly against her hair as he continued staring into the kitchen where Julia and Paul Child had spent nearly forty-five years together.

She turned and draped her arms around his neck. After a quick backward glance at the kitchen, she met his gaze, her blue-gray eyes clear and uncomplicated and full of the kind of love he used to only dream of. "We can take forever, if you want."

He smoothed her hair back from her face and kissed her. "Forever sounds like a damned good place to start."

_~Fin~_

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>And so the ride comes to an end. Thank you guys, for coming along on the roller coaster as I boldly ventured into non-canon land (HEA, even! ACK!) and for leaving such lovely, encouraging reviews. They're all very, very much appreciated.


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